


Harry the Blue

by biosurge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biosurge/pseuds/biosurge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate's plans are shattered as the Titans decide to interfere for the good of all and send an agent to serve as a teacher and mother to Fate's Lynchpin. </p><p>The question remains, are Fate's plans as shattered as the Titans believe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introducing the Mother

Blue eyes watched steadily as the party of five heroes, equipped in poorly-enchanted plate, leather, and cloth armour, made short work of the Blue Dragonkin and Drakonid Lord Malygos loaned her for this situation. It was an unfortunate reality that the Violet Hold only allowed a single portal open at a time, or she'd send all her troops in at once.  
  
Besides, if the grounded members of the Blue Flight couldn't kill a poorly-equipped party of five adventurers, it was their fault for not being stronger. The Blue Flight had no place for weaklings. An eyebrow rose as the defenders managed to find a second, and third, wind as they took down two of the prisoners released by the Drakonid. She could see them tiring, though, and when the last of her currently-ready troops were laid low by the pests, she snarled and decided to handle things herself.  
  
“A valiant defence, _heroes_ ,” she said as she jumped down in her elven body to the ground floor of the Violet Hold. “But Malygos' Will be done! I will raze this city myself.”  
  
The five exhausted heroes she'd been deriding readied themselves as sparks of arcane lightning flowed around her frame in preparation for her transformation to her draconic form. The five, two Humans, a Night elf, a Gnome and a Dwarf, swiftly said a prayer to their Light to grant them strength as her transformation finished.  
  
In this, she respected their wisdom. It wouldn't be enough to lay her low, but divine favour would be an excellent first step to taking on someone of her calibre; the second-most powerful lieutenant of Malygos the Spellweaver. These pests would have to learn just what it meant to face a true Wyrm of the Blue Flight. She who was ancient when the War of the Ancients was young.  
  
One of the Humans turned around and shouted, “Lieutenant Sinclari, now!”  
  
What?  
  
Five golden lances of magic shot out from five crystals affixed to the wall, and she suddenly found it hard to move, or even access more than an insignificant portion of her magic. Her scales lost much of their shine and hardness as a result. She was a Blue, her body was ninety-five percent pure magic, and losing access to such a large portion of her magic had its toll on her body.  
  
It seemed that these mortal whelps wouldn't even have the dignity to face her in honourable combat. As the Dwarf's sharp axe neared her neck, her only thought was that their impudence would kill them one day as they took on a threat even their vaunted tricks could not handle.  
  
The next moment, her head slid off her body and she prepared to fully embrace the Source, as was the fate of all members of the Blue Flight. She didn't expect to open her eyes ever again.  
  
Yet she did, and all they saw was a black void, briefly interrupted here and there by little lights she suspected to be stars. Someone had interrupted the breakdown of her body to pure magic, leaving only the little bit of her that was still solid behind, and its subsequent return to the Source, the well from which all magic on Azeroth sprung. That meant she had to be careful. Interrupting or even diverting a dispersal of such a magnitude took a lot of power and not a little amount of will to hold the magic in place as it reconstituted itself into herself at the peak of her existence.  
  
She looked down, and noticed that she was a) in her elven form, and b) utterly naked. And such a glorious body it was, too. The few scars she'd had obtained over her millennia of service to the Lord Malygos were gone, her muscles were more toned without losing definition, and her breasts were a little larger.  
  
Her elven form was now the utter perfection she'd always wished it to be, but previously lacked the mass to actually make it so.  
  
“ _Greetings, Cyanigosa of the Blue Flight_.”  
  
She liked to think that her whirling around at the sudden disembodied voice was dignified, as was proper of a dragon of her standing, but even as that thought raced through her mind she knew it wasn't so. She definitely did not exclaim a whelpish 'eep', and if that voice would ever insinuate otherwise she would roast him in Spellfire whether he was the Spellweaver himself or not!  
  
“Who are you?” she demanded as she manipulated her magic to bring into being her preferred dress, a low-cut violet-blue piece that was slit up the sides to just under her hips. It showed nothing, but hinted at everything. “Show yourself!”  
  
“ _Very well_ ,” the voice replied with a trace of amusement. “ _Avatar translocation imminen_ t.”  
  
There was a flash, and suddenly a large Truesilver leg filled her vision. Startled, she looked up and took another step back. And another. And another. And another.  
  
“ _I will assume a size more conducive to conversation_ ,” the voice said, and on its wielder's command the leg shrunk to a size that Cyanigosa was more likely to find in Dun Niffelem.  
  
Her eyes roamed over the Truesilver-platinum skin and widened. She took in the fact that this colouration extended everywhere she could see – except for the eyes and hair – and her jaw dropped. Her mind ground to a halt as it registered the presence of the platinum-blond hair and steel-blue eyes.  
  
She instantly dropped to her knees and her forehead hit the invisible floor within a second. “My lord, forgive my rudeness,” she said, begging that her earlier demeanour hadn't thoroughly pissed him off. It was one thing to irritate Lord Malygos, the Spellweaver.  
  
It was another thing entirely to get Lord Norgannon, the Dreamweaver and the one whose power Lord Malygos derived his from, against her. Even if she didn't revere the Titans like some Dwarves did, she respected their power, much like she respected Lord Malygos' power.  
  
“ _Forgiveness is unnecessary,_ ” her Lord said, and Cyanigosa breathed an internal sigh of relief. “ _Rise, Cyanigosa_.”  
  
She stood, but kept her head bowed. “My Lord, may I enquire as to why I was held back from rejoining my fallen brethren at the Source?”  
  
It was more than a little presumptuous as she had not been given permission to speak, but this question burned at her mind and she found herself asking before her mind fully registered what her mouth was spewing. She was about to apologize when Lord Norgannon cut her off.  
  
“ _You may_ ,” her Lord said. “ _A situation has appeared in a nearby world. Simulation determined that the best outcome would be found by introducing you into its planetary matrix. Your existential matrix will be manipulated to ensure that the best outcome prevails_.”  
  
Interpreting the silence following this statement as tacit permission to speak, she asked, “What does my Lord wish me to do?”  
  
“ _A lynchpin is being suppressed. You are tasked to bring the lynchpin to full effectiveness. There are additional tasks, but clarity will be attained in due time_.”  
  
“What does 'full effectiveness' imply in this case, my Lord?”  
  
“ _Clarity will be attained in due time_ ,” he repeated, much to her ire. “ _Certain items will be made available to you via your pocket dimension. You will know what to do with them when the time comes_.”  
  
Well, that was helpful. Her Lord had the full right to be vague, but that didn't mean that it wasn't irritating in the extreme.  
  
“ _Any further information will be provided in the course of your task_ ,” Lord Norgannon said as a runic circle appeared beneath Cyanigosa. “ _May your endeavour succeed_.”  
  
Before Cyanigosa could reply that she wouldn't fail her Lord, he snapped his finger and the ritual sent her careening through space and time to a destination unknown.  
  
She felt her magic free up and becomes denser, before having it refilled to her original size. The next thing she was aware of was a horrible twisting sensation in her magic that would have made her cry out in pain had she not currently been hurling through the void of spacetime.  
  
It felt like someone had driven nails through every single one of her scales, stuck her limbs in red-hot iron chains, clamped her snout shut with a red-hot spiked muzzle, then thought it'd be funny to pile on a dozen Curses of Pain, the mortal variety that was much more painful that the immortal one, on the same spot, all over her body.  
  
After some time – she lost track after three days –, the agony ceased and she inspected her magic for any changes. The first thing she noticed was that her link to Lord Malygos was cut. The geas he put on every Blue Dragon at birth that bound them to himself was gone. She suspected that it had been replaced by a geas binding her to Lord Norgannon, because magic couldn't just vanish.  
  
Action had to be equal to reaction, or in other words, gain had to balance loss.  
  
A quick inspection – she'd perform a deeper one later – told her that she'd gained another fifteen percent of magical power, and that her elemental affinity had changed. Previously, she'd been a creature of Spellfrost, a combination of Frost and Arcane, but the cursory inspection told her that it had been subsumed by an affinity to Spellfire, a particularly destructive art that combined Fire and Arcane.  
  
She had a lot of practice in her near future to look forward to. As a lieutenant of Malygos, there was very little she didn't know regarding magic, and she'd learned at least the theory of every magical art invented on Azeroth by heart. That didn't meant she actually practised more than her chosen fields, but knowledge was power, and knowing how other magics worked allowed her to develop counters.  
  
After she realized this, she noticed that a rapidly approaching light had appeared somewhere in the distance.  
  
“A light at the end of a tunnel,” she said flatly, thoroughly unimpressed. “How unoriginal, but I suppose it works.”  
  
The next moment the light swallowed her, and her world went black.  
  
– – – –  
  
She opened her eyes to the sight of a street, but it was not like any she had ever seen before. The road was paved with a smooth, seamless layer of stone, the particular type of stone not something she had encountered before. Large, white houses lined the street, and white picket fences stood between the houses and the street.  
  
Neither the houses' stone nor the fences' wood were familiar to her. The large metal poles lining the street were obviously gaslights designed to illuminate the street at night-time, and the stone of the pavement was one she did recognize, even if the near-perfect uniformity of everything was rather disturbing. The houses were all the same, the stones of the pavement were all perfect squares, the gaslights stood with near-perfect equidistance to their neighbour, and even the fences and lawns were close enough clones of each other that she had trouble spotting a difference unless she looked very closely.  
  
The fact that it was night didn't help matters much, truth be told. In an attempt to find some normality, she looked up to the night sky and blinked as none of the stars matched to the constellations she was aware of.  
  
So, another world entirely, just like her Lord had promised. She smirked a little at the possibilities now open to her before it faded as she realized that she couldn't do everything she wanted to. She had a task to do, and apparently there was a lot riding on it. Nobody, not even the Titans, used 'lynchpin' lightly.  
  
She decided that waiting where she appeared was the most sensible thing to do, and wove a standard Invisibility enchantment over herself. Or at least, she attempted to. Her new magic was much more responsive and powerful than she was used to, but sheer bull-headedness and a lot of experience channelling magic saw her comfortably cloaked in an invisibility field within an hour.  
  
Just in time.  
  
A soft crack, clearly audible to her sensitive ears, sounded from one corner of the street. She looked over and raised an eyebrow at the man's eccentric appearance. His silver-grey beard was tucked into his belt and still reached his knees, the robes were things not even the most insane mage would be caught dead in – no self-respecting mage would have such a stereotypical robe, preferring a plain one or one embossed with finery reflecting their station –, and there was this aura of age and wisdom around him that was clearly magically enhanced. Auras of age and wisdom were a thing, but they generally weren't registered consciously, even by someone like her, and the fact that she was tripped some alarms in her mind.  
  
Despite his appearance, this man was dangerous. She watched as, in short order, he sucked the gaslights into a small rectangular container, a stern-looking witch transformed from a cat to a woman – with a much more sensible sense of fashion –, talked to the old man – something about 'Muggles' and how these were the worst of the lot, and something about parties she filed away in the back of her mind – and the pair was joined by a large fellow on an equally massive motorbike.  
  
She quickly decided that the large man was her main point of interest. It wasn't anything to do with the man himself – despite his size, there was little she noticed about him –, but the little bundle he carried in his arms. The magic of the little bundle washed over her like a tidal wave washed over the shoreline, and it reminded her a little of how Lord Malygos' presence used to do the same.  
  
She didn't have to be a mother to that little bundle, had she?  
  
Continued conversation between the three, something about how a Lily and James sacrificing themselves so that their son could live, told her that yes, being a mother to this brat was her task. The old man drew a wand and cast a few spells on the whelp. The first felt to her as a general sensation of warmth, and she supposed that the night was rather chilly to human skin, and since these looked the same way humans back home did, it was logical that the same physical limitations applied.  
  
The second and third, cast in the shadow of the first, found her suppressing a major outburst of anger-fuelled Spellfire, and any doubt that this whelp was not her task vanished in accord with his magical presence. Binding a whelp's magic like the old mage had just done was anathema to a creature of magic like herself.  
  
If the whelp's unbound magic was a problem – as infantile magical outburst were not exactly rare – then the solution lay in the parents bettering themselves so that they could cast the magic required of them to keep their belongings safe, not in binding the whelp's magic.  
  
Ten minutes later the street was empty and Cyanigosa made her move. She snatched the little basket with the whelp, letter and all, from the doorstep of the home. She placed the whelp in a stasis spell and stored him inside a pocket dimension as she transformed into her draconic form and took off into the night, stumbling only a little at her newfound speed.  
  
By the time the old man returned to the street, she was long gone.  
  
– – – –  
  
Cyanigosa flew North without any real aim. As a dragon formerly of Frost, North – towards Coldarra and the freezing pole beyond – was a direction she was naturally inclined to travel in whenever she felt lost, and it had never failed her before.  
  
Even in this new world, going North would not fail her. This she knew as certainly as she knew that she needed more information on this world. It was pure chance that the language spoken by those mages earlier was Common, and the little she heard from that one conversation did not paint a very bright picture of this world's status, and her new whelp's role in it.  
  
Thinking of her new whelp, he needed a name. She felt fairly confident saying that he was named Harry, and Harry was for too common a name for the whelp of a Blue Dragon. Furthermore, she needed to do something about his Humanity. She had nothing against Humans per se, but of all non-draconian species, only the Quel'Dorei were of sufficient looks to be deemed acceptable, and anyone she would call 'her whelp' would be more than a mere acceptable.  
  
Fortunately, she had just the thing. She'd been visiting Quel'Thalas in Quel'Dorei form not too long ago, and a male Quel'Dorei she'd stumbled upon thought he could make romantic passes at her. He soon learned otherwise as she encased him in ice. In a fit of whimsy, she'd stored him in a stasis spell inside her pocket dimension. He should still be in there, if Lord Norgannon hadn't taken him out.  
  
She stopped her musing as she caught sight of a hill with a cavernous entrance that appeared to be large enough for her. She swooped down to inspect the entrance, and found it satisfactory. The cave itself was more than large enough for even her draconian frame to comfortably stand with stretched wings, and the entrance was large enough for her to fly in and out in her draconic form without worrying about hitting the sides. She set down and transformed back to her elven form. With the ease of much practice, she carved runes into the mouth of the cave to obscure it from vision by making it appear to be just a hillside. She augmented this by casting a subtle aversion ward and considered the job done for now.  
  
Next, she would have to stop magical tracking attempts. Scrying was easy. Summoning was harder, but simple magical echolocation was the hardest to block of them all. For now, a ward that would block all incoming magic would suffice. She could see to augmenting the barrier with something that would hold up against more than a metaphorical harsh wind later.  
  
She re-opened her pocket dimension and retrieved the two things that her life would revolve around in the coming years; the whelp and his letter, the former more so than the latter.  
  
She decided to leave the letter for now and examine the whelp. Three things stood out immediately, one of which she knew of already.  
  
First, he didn't have any magical core to speak of whatsoever. Mortal mages in Azeroth, even the Elves, had magical cores that grew as they aged and they practised. Some were born with one, some without, but the first thing those without did was to reach out to the ley-lines and create one. Magic on Azeroth was impossible without a magical core unless one was a dragon, and even for dragons a magical core made things easier by several orders of magnitude.  
  
Second, the bindings. She once again had to repress the urge to blast the old mage with Spellfire at the feel of the things. They were dripping with malice – a honey-flavoured malice, so that meant that they had at least been cast with good intentions – and they severely restricted the flow of magic in the whelp's body. Her initial hypothesis based on this was that this world's mages had large reservoirs of magic and that their power depended on the flow rate of their magic through their body. She couldn't say anything firm about it since she lacked data, but she figured she'd get more than enough data in the coming years.  
  
Third, there was a _horrible, horrible, horrible_ magic attached to the scar on the whelp's forehead. It felt _Evil_ , to the point that the Lich King's magic felt simply malicious. It actually felt rather similar to a Lich, but on a higher magnitude.  
  
This time, she _did_ set something ablaze in Spellfire. There were few things she abhorred more than the perversion of magic, the sin against everything decent, the rape of the natural order that was necromancy.  
  
With a negligent wave she doused the Spellfire and gathered the letter. The words on the envelope read 'To Petunia' in green ink, written in a looping script that she'd not seen outside those with the finest of educations. Petunia didn't sound like a male name, so it was likely to be addressed to a relative at the house she gathered the whelp – still in stasis – from.  
  
It wasn't a feat of great difficulty to notice the magic on the letter itself. The material was practically reeking with the stuff. A careful examination of the magic on the envelope told her very little. There was something she figured was a preservation spell of some kind – it smelled a little like formaldehyde –, and there was that warm feeling again that she figured was some kind of warming spell similar to Proudmoore's airconditioning spell.  
  
She ripped open the letter and found more of the looping script, written in the same ink.  
  
' _Dear Petunia_ ,' it began.  
  
' _As you undoubtedly know, we have had a spot of trouble with the self-styled Lord Voldemort in recent years. Just last night, he was vanquished through the efforts of your sister and her husband. Neither of them, I am sorry to say, survived their brush with Lord Voldemort, though their son did. I need you to take care of their son, young Harry, until such a time that he can return to where he rightfully belongs.'_  
  
_'Forever yours,_  
_'Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_  
_'Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_  
_'Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards_  
_'Chief Warlock, House of Lords Wizengamot'_  
  
Cyanigosa whistled a little at the letter. The information provided by the letter was less in the body – the only real thing of value she learned from it were confirmations of the whelp's name and his parent's names, as well as this 'Lord Voldemort' person she'd have to look into later.  
  
No, the real information was in the closing. A school implied a community. This implication was reinforced by the other two titles, which sounded fairly judicial. Where there was a justice system, there was a community. Where there was a community, there were organized scholars. Where there were scholars, there was information. Where the was information, there was power.  
  
But first, the whelp.  
  
She ended the stasis spell so that she could undo the bindings. It was pathetically easy. A simple influx of magic into the whelp sent the bindings crashing, restoring the magical flow she felt earlier in that street. Either the bindings weren't intended to be strong, which she doubted, or they were intended to settle down in the target's magic, growing stronger over time until they became practically permanent. She felt fairly safe in assuming it was the latter. She removed her dress to create a makeshift bed for the whelp as she set about making the cave liveable. She wasn't going to go without the creature comforts of a bed, tables, chairs, an actual physical library, and other things of that nature. She'd have to anchor the conjurations with runes, but that was almost zero effort to her. She'd done that so often that she could conjure her creations with those runes, with the sole exception of clothing. Moving things could not be anchored to the planet, and anchoring them to her would just drain her magic unnecessarily. Clothing tended to move.  
  
While she was at it, she conjured a crib fit for a king in the room she was intending to use as a bedroom, and gently deposited the child inside on the comfortable blankets.  
  
She had been a mother once, during the war that was now referred to on Azeroth as the War of the Ancients, and now she was a mother once again. She knew how to parent, though she wasn't sure if she was ready for another whelp.  
  
Last time, her whelp and mate died at the hands of Mannoroth.  
  
She vowed that this time, she would not fail her whelp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather fast update. Don't expect another one for a month at least, since I have two other fics I'm writing over on ff.net (one cross-posted to AO3) concurrently.

“ _Malana_ ,” a young voice said, coming from the mouth of the cave network they'd made their home. Through a little application of runes, and some very fine hearing, they could converse from a mile away as if they were standing in the same room. His footsteps approached her room swiflty. Obviously, something important had happened. Did it have to do with the beating wings she heard arrive earlier? “An owl has arrived, bearing a letter.”

 

“Truly?” she said without looking up from her book. Hypothesis confirmed. She'd built an exception in the obscuration wards specifically allowing owls when she was informed that the mages here used owls as a primary mode of communication and she obtained a subscription to the local newspapers. “Have you checked the letter for the usual fare, Tyragos?”

 

“I have, _malana,”_ Tyragos, sporting a shoulder-length head of azure hair that neatly covered his forehead and pointed ears accompanied by electric blue eyes, said as he walked into the room she was in. “My spells do not detect magic beyond ambient levels on the letter.”

 

She hummed and looked over at the letter still in her son's clutches, extending her senses. Just as her whelp had said, there was no magic beyond ambient levels on the envelope or the letter within that she could detect. The owl that had taken up a position on her whelp's shoulder didn't feel like it had any unwanted immaterial guests either. “Go ahead, _fanal_ , open it,” she said.

 

Tyragos did so without further ado. “ _Dear Mr. Potter,”_ he read out loud. “ _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._ _Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment. Term begins on the first of September, and we await your return owl by no later than 31 July._

 

“ _Yours sincerely,_

 

“ _Minerva McGonagall_

“ _Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

“The second page has a list of items I need.”

 

Cyanigosa hummed at her whelp's words and looked at the owl. She saw a spark of intelligence behind its gaze that she hadn't seen on other owls. “We're to send the return message with you?” she asked the bird. A single hoot was her answer. “What do you think, Tyragos?”

 

“It sounds like an opportunity I cannot afford to miss,” Tyragos said after a minute's thought. She agreed with the sentiment. Everything she'd read about Hogwarts made it sound like a boarding school, and boarding schools were excellent places to make connections.

 

She should know, the Blue Flight used to have an equivalent back before the War of the Ancients.

 

“And?”

 

“I have no idea where Diagon Alley is,” he admitted ruefully. Cyanigosa smiled at her whelp's admission of weakness, slight as it was. It appeared that her attempts at keeping him humble enough to be aware of his own flaws – unlike herself, who only acknowledged she had any after it had been far too late – had worked.

 

“Fortunately for you, whelp, I do,” she said. She'd found the Alley fairly early on, that amount of magic was very hard to miss, but Tyragos demanded her attention often enough back then that she felt uncomfortable leaving him alone, so she waited until he was six before she first entered Diagon Alley. “We can go after we review your Human disguise again, unless you want people to see your Elven superiority.”

 

Tyragos grimaced. “Not particularly, no. Once was enough.”

 

Despite her better judgement she'd taken him to a nearby village before he mastered his Human disguise, five years ago now, and people had gotten jealous. Jealous Humans were nasty to a level she'd previously only associated with upper-level politics or the Black Flight. They'd managed to convince people that it was a 'cosplay', a term she'd learned of practically three seconds before that, but it had been a narrow thing, and Tyragos had vowed not to go out without having mastered his Human disguise. It wasn't at mastery even now, for it fell off while asleep or unconscious, but it sufficed for trips into the villages nearby their hill and they had not had a repeat of that first time.

 

“Write your acceptance to Hogwarts and run it by me before it gets sent,” she said, and Tyragos turned to do just that. “And feed the owl,” she added to his retreating back. “I'm sure we've got some bacon left over from breakfast.”

 

He didn't reply. “Cheeky whelp,” she said with a hint of fondness in her voice.

 

It sometimes felt like it was just yesterday that she'd accepted Lord Norgannon's offer instead of ten years ago, and now her whelp was already going out into the wider world.

 

She thanked her lucky stars that he'd kept the relatively swift emotional maturation of his Human origins, or this would have been very ill-advised. As it was, she still wasn't sure this was a good idea, but the geas she'd since confirmed had shifted itself to Norgannon told her that this had to happen – how, she wasn't sure, as all the geas theory she knew said that that behaviour was impossible, but then again, this _was_ Lord Norgannon –, and that it had to happen now.

 

So she would do it. She wouldn't like it, but she would do it.

 

She rose from her chair and put her book down. She had a few experiments running that needed to be stabilized before they could go.

 

– – – – _Two days later – – – –_

 

A quiet pop sounded from an equally quiet back alley in London that no-one was quite sure existed. The mages of this world had, back in the day, placed a number of enchantments on a number of alleys to keep them out of sight of the non-magical folk, and this particular alley was one of those.

 

The enchantments on the place served to make non-magical eyes just go from one side to the other without registering the empty space in between. It was an impressive bit of magic that would have been utterly impossible on Azeroth, but the different way in which these mages channelled their magic naturally meant that different things were easier and others harder.

 

For example, the mages of this world found elemental magics nigh-impossible, while they were some of the first spells she ever learned. Tyragos was lucky in that regard, as he had both this world's magic and a magical core similar in style to the ones on Azeroth, allowing the use of both magics concurrently. She was capable of this as well, but since her core-less magic was different than Tyragos', many skills of this world were quite hard for her. The downside to not being a native to this world, she'd supposed when she learned of that.

 

One of the skills from this new world that _did_ come quite easy to her, since it was essentially a long-range Blink spell, was Apparition. She'd made arrangements to learn the skill after she first visited the Alley six years ago and she learned that it would be decidedly sub-optimal to create portals like she did on Azeroth. The lack of proper anchors aside, the only portals this world knew were those involved in _summoning demons._ So portals were out.

 

Apparition had its own downsides, though. Bending spacetime like Apparition did took a toll on the body, though it lessened with repeat exposure.

 

A retching sound emanated from beside her hip, followed by a splattering sound as Tyragos' breakfast vacated his body. “Eeurgh,” he said intelligently as his body shook with the after-effects of Apparition.

 

“You were the one who wanted to go to Diagon _now_ , and you know what they say,” Cyanigosa said, conjuring a glass of water with a near-negligent wave, vanishing the vomit in the same motion. She exited the back alley with her slightly sick, but sobering swiftly, whelp, Human disguise firmly in place, in tow. “We are the architects...” she trailed off, ignoring the shocked exclamation of a mother behind her.

 

“... of our own fate, and we must abide by the consequences of our decisions and actions, whether glorious or tragic,” Tyragos finished without pause or hesitation. “Or vomit, in this case.”

 

“Rightly so,” she said, a pleased smile fluttering over her face. That phrase was one of the first things she taught her whelp when she began his magical education at three years of age like all members of the Blue Flight, as it was the cornerstone upon which all magic was practised on Azeroth, serving additional use as general life-wisdom. “Come on, _fanal_ , it's this way.”

 

Tyragos hurried to keep pace with her stride as she crossed the street to the Leaky Cauldron. There was an Apparition point inside the Alley itself, of course, but she wanted her whelp to be able to find the Alley even without the aid of Apparition, and the alley she used to pop into the city used to be Diagon Alley's Apparition point until some mage got it into his head that a point inside the alley would be much more useful, and the point she had used had been all but forgotten in the years since.

 

The Leaky Cauldron was, as the name implied, a rather run-down place. The scent of stale beer, old wood, and the musty air was rather overpowering to her nose, though she did have to admit that the place was cleaner than it had been six years ago, when she'd not-so-subtly implied that his pub was the first or damn-near first thing first generation mages saw of the magical world, and that it behooved him to ensure that this introduction was not one of decadence, but of splendour. As much splendour as a pub could have, of course. Channelling some magic to her nose to reduce its effectiveness to Human-normal told her that the only reason the scent overpowered was because of her superhuman sensory organs. With a Human-normal nose – or at least, the closest thing she could get to it, having never had a Human-normal nose –, it smelled like any ye olde pub in Silvermoon that she'd visited, rather than one of those places out in the middle of, say, the Redridge Mountains or Dustwallow Marsh.

 

“Gah, what is this stench?” Tyragos asked from outside the door, a hand firmly clamped over his nose.

 

“Your superior senses, _fanal_ ,” she replied. “To a Human-normal nose, it smells like any bog-standard pub.”

 

“Right,” he said without much conviction. “Let's just hurry, shall we?”

 

“By all means,” she said, and walked into the pub proper.

 

“Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, folks!” the barkeep, a kindly old man named Tom, said jovially. “What can I do ya for, miss Sapphire?”

 

“Just passing through, Tom,” she said. “My son is starting at Hogwarts this year. Henry, meet Tom the barkeep. Tom, this is my son, Henry.”

 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Tyragos, temporarily named Henry while in his Human guise, said with a shallow bow.

 

“No need to be all formal 'round these parts,” Tom said. “We ain't big on formality in here, though it's good to see that there's still parents what teach their kids manners, unlike some.”

 

“Indeed,” Cyanigosa said. “Though we must be off for now, we will want to enjoy dinner here. Until then.”

 

“See ya,” Tom said with a wave as she made her way to the far door with Tyragos in tow, thanking her lucky stars that she'd had the foresight to not make Tyragos' 'Henry' disguise appear similar to how Harry Potter should have looked at his age. They rounded his face some, made his nose a slight bit more bulbous, and gave him electric blue eyes to go with his azure hair. The only thing they found he couldn't change was his scar, and his hair did an adequate job at disguising that identifying mark.

 

The result was that no-one recognized Harry Potter, or Tyragos as he went by these days.

 

Once on the other side of the far door, Cyanigosa channelled some magic to her finger and tapped three bricks in succession, tapping them slowly so Tyragos knew which bricks to hit should he need to visit the alley on his own.

 

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” she said, mirth lacing her voice at the wide-eyed look her son was giving the street as they walked through it.

 

It was very similar to her own reaction upon her first visit. The construction itself hardly rated up there on the weirdness ladder, but there was a chaos here that Dalaran, the closest equivalent she could think of, simply lacked. A variety of animals hissed, squeaked, meowed, and roared – among others, but she couldn't think of the names of their cries off the top of her head – in a shop on the left, while a shop on the right proudly declared that they had the finest selection of owls of all kinds and the hooting to go with it, even though even her ears could barely pick it up. Further down the winding street, a display window advertised cauldrons of all sizes and makes, and another store sold brooms – _actual brooms that flew_ , Tarecgosa would have been ecstatic because she'd never succeeded in making one do so –, and yet another sold ingredients that mages back home would have had to hunt themselves. Frog's eyes, lizard liver, eyes of newt, spleens from various animals, and much, much more. Including, to no insignificant amount of distaste, powdered dragon scales.

 

Eventually, she saw his gaze settle on one particular store, and she had to swiftly grab his hand to keep him by her side.

 

“ _Malana_ ,” he said, in a rare moment of whelp-like petulance. His eyes were big and dewy as their owner looked pleadingly at her, then back at the store he'd been walking towards.

 

“No, _fanal,”_ she said firmly. “At least, not yet. We have a shopping list, and as such no time to get lost in the bookstore.”

 

Tyragos pouted adorably, but she would not be swayed. The first time she went to Diagon Alley, she was drawn to Flourish and Blotts like a moth to the naked flame in a manner very similar to her whelp just now, and she'd stayed there until she was kicked out at closing time – a full seven hours later – at which point she realized she had no money that was accepted here.

 

Fortunately, raw gold was a universal currency. _That_ , she had more than enough of, having amassed quite the fortune over more than ten millennia of life.

 

The next day, she went to the building that was their current destination. The large marble building that towered over all the others, the front embossed with golden lettering that read 'Gringotts'. She greeted the diminutive goblin guard standing outside the burnished bronze doors with a nod and ushered Tyragos inside, where she promptly pushed him to a corner, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Several nearby goblin guards saw them and turned to listen to what they had to say, but she ignored them. She had forgotten to teach her whelp how to deal with goblins, so she had to rectify that with a crash course in goblin-human interactions.

 

“Quick crash-course in dealing with goblins, little whelp,” she said softly and quickly. “First, goblins are a warrior race. Be respectful, but don't simper. Second, as a consequence of the first, goblins like to be challenged, and they like to win. It is our job to make sure that the goblins feel like they're winning when they're not, just as they will be doing the same to us. Don't let yourself get spooked by whatever antics they put up. Third, eye contact is important. Unless you're reading a piece of parchment they have given you, maintain eye contact with the goblin you're speaking to.”

 

Tyragos nodded uncertainly.

 

Cyanigosa decided that it would have to do for now. She made for the counter, her son in tow.

 

“Good morning,” she said to a free goblin, placing a little golden key on the counter, the handle engraved with the number '813'. “We've come to withdraw some money from the vault of Sapphire, number 813, and,” she added, placing a second key on the counter which was identical to the first in every way except for the '687' embossed on the handle, “from vault 687, belonging to Harry Potter.”

 

She turned to Tyragos. “Drop the illusion, Harry,” she said. Tyragos, as practised, turned his straight azure hair black and messy, his nose sharpened, as did his face, his cheekbones rose a little, and his eyes turned a brilliant green. His hairline receded to show his scar.

 

The teller raised an eyebrow and, after inspecting both 'Harry' and the keys, nodded. “This seems to be in order. I will have someone take you down to the vaults. Griphook!”

 

Griphook was yet another goblin, one she wasn't familiar with, that led them to one of the doors leading off the hall. Unlike the other publicly available areas of Gringotts, these narrow tunnels were made from stone and dramatically lit with flaming torches to give the place an intimidating air. The tunnel sloped downwards steeply and tracks started on the floor a little ahead of them. Griphook whistled a whistle that made Tyragos flinch, and a cart barrelled down the tracks towards them. They climbed in, and Cyanigosa put her arm around her whelp.

 

“This is the fun part,” she said with a feral grin as the cart set off at a rapid pace.

 

It only took three turns for Tyragos to start whooping in joy at the sensation. She _may_ have run out of Quel'Dorei blood for the ritual she used to modify the infant Tyragos and may have used the convenient Blue Wyrm she found intact in her pocket dimension – one of the things she was absolutely certain had not been there before –, followed by a runic seal to lock him out of his draconic form so that he would mature at an elven pace instead of a dragon's, which would have seen him as a whelp barely capable of taking care of himself for the next half-millennium.

 

There had been additional unintended, but very positive consequences, of that ritual, not in the least that his three main forms were mostly flawless. He retained his draconic senses in both humanoid forms, but if he had bloodwork done in his Human form, it would return Human results. Likewise for his Quel'Dorei form and the draconic form he'd been in for all of three hours.

 

“Vault 813,” Griphook announced as the cart slowed to a halt outside a metal door marked simply as '813', handing Cyanigosa the key to the vault. Cyanigosa walked over to the door and inserted her key. With a soft click, followed by a lot of rattling, the door melted away in the manner most Gringotts doors did. She swiftly collected a large helping of cash and piled it into a small bag that didn't appear large enough to be able to hold it all. She left the vault, the door sizzling back into place behind her, magically ejecting the key into her hand when it was done.

 

She climbed back into the cart next to her son. “Can it go faster?” he asked eagerly of their goblin driver, who looked at him with a surprised expression.

 

“One speed only,” he said gruffly, and they set off.

 

Tyragos resumed whooping in joy as they turned right, left, right, took a middle fork, another right, right fork, left fork, middle fork, left, left, left, right, right, left, dropped vertically a few dozen metres, then took another right fork, right, right, left, and finally came to a halt. She wondered if Tyragos had had enough of a presence of mind to notice that the cart appeared to be steering itself.

 

“Vault 687,” Griphook announced. Unlike with her vault, Griphook got up and unlocked the door for them. Apparently her son rated higher security than she did. A lot of green smoke billowed out, and her whelp gasped when it cleared.

 

“This is all mine?” he asked upon seeing the mounds of gold, the columns of silver, and the heaps of bronze. She almost snorted. Like all Blues, her son liked hoarding. Usually, Blues hoarded knowledge, but in the end they were dragons, and like all dragons – it was one of the few stereotypes Cyanigosa knew was actually true for the vast, vast, _vast_ majority of Azerothian Dragons– they had a certain appreciation for the aesthetic value of money.

 

A lot of money.

 

“This is all yours,” she confirmed. “The gold-looking coins are called Galleons, and are the biggest denomination the mages here have. The silver ones are called Sickles, and seventeen of them equal one Galleon. The bronze coins are Knuts, and twenty-nine of them make a Sickle.”

 

She helped her whelp pile a fair bit of it in a bag, totalling some five hundred Galleons. “Now, keep in mind that this isn't actual bronze, silver, or gold. They used to be, but some mage got it in their heads a century or so ago to smelt his Galleons down to gold, sell it to the non-magical people, and then take that money back to Gringotts. Since the exchange rate was so favourable, he made a killing and nearly bankrupted Gringotts until they outlawed the practice. To be sure that it never happened again, a modern Galleon is made from Pyrite, also known as Fool's Gold. Similar constructs make up the Sickles and Knuts.”

 

“You are very well informed in Gringotts history,” Griphook remarked, a hint of approval in his voice.

 

“I like learning,” she replied simply. “Magic is my favoured scholarly pastime, but history is a very close second. Politics are a rather distant third.”

 

Griphook nodded approvingly. “The lessons of yesterday carry us forward to tomorrow,” he said wisely, then motioned for them to come back into the cart. “Time is money, and time's wasting.”

 

“Right you are,” she said, and they took off again once they were seated.

 

One wild cart ride later, the pair stood outside Gringotts, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjusted to the sunlight. Tyragos started to run off, but a hand fell on his shoulder and he shot her a betrayed look before it changed. His irises and pupils grew larger and gained a glistened sheen to them.

 

Where and when he'd learned the dreaded Puppy-dog Eyes – as she eventually learned it was called – she didn't know, but should she ever locate him or her and get her claws on that person... heads would roll.

 

“I meant what I said earlier,” she said, unmoved even in the face of the infamous crusher of resolve. She'd been exposed too many times to them for them to have a real effect these days. “Bookstore _last_. Let's start with your uniform,” she added with a wave of her free hand towards _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_. “I happen to need a new robe as well. Conjured clothing is perfectly functional, but permanent versions are far too much effort to bother with, and it simply won't do to have clothes disappear in the middle of a crowded street.”

 

They entered the shop, the pair separating to go to their respective corners of the clothing store. While she was examining their current selection of summer robes, she kept an ear on her whelp just in case.

 

“Hello dear,” she heard Madam Malkin say. “Hogwarts?”

 

“Yes,” her whelp said with hardly any shake to his voice despite being truly on his own for only the second time in his life.

 

“Hello,” another young male's voice said a moment later, after being led to another corner of the shop. “Hogwarts too?”

 

“Yes,” her whelp said simply while someone was fussing with his measurements.

 

She scowled at the clothing in the store. Nothing caught her fancy. She sighed and walked through the aisles until she was just out of sight of her whelp, just in case he needed an intervention.

 

“First-year as well?”

 

“Yes.” A moment later, “My name's Harry Potter.”

 

“Dean Thomas,” the boy replied. “Da's outside making googly eyes at all the violations of the laws of physics as he knows them,” he added with a snort. “Ma's keeping him out of trouble, aided by Professor Flitwick, though he also needs to keep an eye on the others.”

 

“Who's Professor Flitwick?”

 

“He's the Head of Ravenclaw House,” Dean said promptly. “But I thought you already knew that, since you weren't there with the other muggleborn.”

 

“I'm not exactly muggleborn, but also not really raised around magic here,” her whelp said, and she almost applauded. While Tyragos _had_ been raised in a very magic-heavy environment, most of it was Azerothian magic. She only introduced this world's magic when he was nine and they'd just returned from their holiday to Hungary to visit the Dragon Preserve, and she'd focused heavily on the theoretical subjects. Runes, Arithmancy, and more general magical theory.

 

“I see,” Dean said. “Makes you practically a muggleborn, it does. Want to join us?”

 

“I'd have to ask mom,” he said.

 

“Okay,” Dean said, and she took this moment to join the scene, stepping out from behind the wall she'd been leaning against. “Is that her?” Dean said, pointing at her.

 

Tyragos' turned around, earning him a few tuts from Madam Malkin. “Now now, dear,” she said, adjusting a few pins. “Stay still. You don't want your clothing to come out all crooked, do you?”

 

Tyragos turned back around, not wanting to wear crooked clothing.

 

“I am indeed his mother, Mr...” she trailed off as if she didn't know his name already, studying him intently. Darkened skin – not quite brown, but far darker than a tan – betraying non-British heritage, tall, but otherwise average build.

 

“Thomas, Dean Thomas,” Dean said.

 

“Mr. Thomas. I'm Sapphire, no last name. And to answer your question, I do not foresee much trouble joining your group,” she said. “It's not like we're on a tight schedule.”

 

Both their faces lit up. It seemed her whelp had already made something of a friend, despite only knowing the other for less than ten minutes. She'd have to check him for potential in emphatic magic when they returned home. She turned to the store's proprietor.

 

“Are they done, Madam Malkin?”

 

“Mr. Thomas has been done ever since they started talking, while your boy's almost done, ma'am,” Madam Malkin said. “Just a few more measurements, and then we'll send you an owl when the robes are done and ready to be picked up.”

 

“Sounds reasonable,” she said. “The address is Sapphire Hill, North York National Park.”

 

“That's up near Scarborough, isn't it?” Madam Malkin asked while she made a note on a scroll of parchment.

 

“It is,” she said. “They're practically next door neighbours.”

 

“There, you're all done,” Madam Malkin said a moment later, prompting Tyragos to jump off the stool, joined a moment later by the other boy. The pair of children, stalked by Cyanigosa, made their way to the counter to pay for the robes. After the money had changed hands, the trio made their way outside to a short, excitable little man who was being bombarded by questions. Most parents would ask questions on the social structure of Hogwarts, maybe what classes were offered, lament on classes that were absent that the parents would have liked their child to attend, but the parents of Dean Thomas were not your typical parents.

 

“How does Transfiguration not violate every known law of the conservation of energy and mass?” Mr. Thomas – senior – asked pointedly.

 

“I'm afraid Transfiguraion isn't my field, Mr. Thomas,” he squeaked. “You'll have to ask my colleague, Professor McGonagall.”

 

“Drat,” he said, then turned his head to the approaching group. “Hello Dean, you got your robes all sorted out?”

 

“And picked up strays, I see,” Mrs. Thomas said at the same time that Dean nodded. “I'm Marianne Thomas, pleased to meet you. This is my husband, Mark.”

 

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Cyanigosa replied, shaking both their hands. “I'm Sapphire, and this is my adopted son, Harry.”

 

Professor Flitwick made a little exclamation that she couldn't decipher. “Harry _Potter?_ ” he asked pointedly. Sighing, she nodded. Not transforming back to 'Henry' was a mistake they could now not afford to undo.

 

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Potter,” he said excitedly. “You're rather famous around these parts for surviving what and where no-one else has before you,” he added when Tyragos' eyes remained blank.

 

Dean gasped. “An actual celebrity?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Thomas,” Professor Flitwick said. “Mr. Potter here is quite possibly the most famous person in magical Britain, up there with Headmaster Dumbledore.”

 

“First time I hear about this,” the now-revealed celebrity said, shooting a look at Cyanigosa.

 

“I figured it was best you weren't raised knowing there were people out there who would crystallize your every breath and store or sell it if given opportunity,” she replied promptly. The fact that she had no idea her whelp was so famous until her first trip to Flourish and Blotts would go unmentioned.

 

“Thank you,” he said at the same time Professor Flitwick said, “A wise decision. Many an adult has let fame go to their head, no telling what would happen to a child.”

 

“Shall we continue shopping?” Tyragos said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

 

“By all means,” Mr. Thomas said amicably, and consulted a list. “The uniform has been taken care of, but we've not yet obtained the rest.”

 

“Neither have we,” Cyanigosa said. “We were intending to pick up a trunk first to store our purchases, then make our way down the list, leaving books for last.”

 

“Why the books for last?” Mrs. Thomas asked. “You don't like books?”

 

“On the contrary,” Cyanigosa said with a slight, very fake, cough. “We're leaving the bookstore for last because we know that there's a more than even chance of us losing track of time in that place and we'd like to finish all our shopping today.”

 

Professor Flitwick laughed. “I don't think I've ever heard of a bibliophile that had it that bad, excepting perhaps this year's Ms. Granger, who will be starting in September like young Mr. Thomas and Mr. Potter here.”

 

Within short order, they had purchased a large trunk with three compartments – nowhere did it say he had to have a standard trunk, and who knew what the extra two compartments could be useful for? Professor Flitwick agreed –, parchment and quills – including a bottle of ink that changed colours as one wrote –, a cauldron – “It says pewter on the list, Harry, not gold, no matter how pretty it is.” –, potion ingredients plus an extraordinarily useful book on the interactions of magical ingredients with each other that was left off the list for some reason or another – recommended by Professor Flitwick –, and a telescope.

 

“... and that's why Giggs is going to be awesome this season!” Dean proclaimed. Tyragos nodded numbly. He'd never really seen the allure of football, much  preferring the archery _malana_ had introduced him to at age seven. “So what's left?” Dean asked as they left the telescope store.

 

“Pet, wand, and books,” Cyanigosa replied instantly.

 

“I would personally recommend an owl,” Professor Flitwick said. “They not only have the least food burden, being fully capable of hunting on their own, but can also be used to carry messages to and from home.”

 

“You're getting an owl,” Marianne Thomas said immediately. “No way am I going to not hear from you while you're there, Dean.”

 

“Yes, Ma,” Dean said obediently.

 

“We'll be getting an owl as well, Harry,” Cyanigosa said. “For much the same reason.”

 

“Yes, Mother,” Tyragos replied, equally obediently.

 

 _Eeyloops Owl Emporium_ was a place where, as one would expect from the name, there were owls. Hundreds of owls, primarily the Tawny, Brown, Snowy, Barn, and Screech variants – the latter of which was very appropriately named – lined the walls of the shop, every single one hooting loudly to create a cacophonus noise that literally stunned Tyragos for a second as he crossed the silencing ward that covered the shop. He'd been taught methods to reduce the sensitivity of his ears for just such a situation, but he'd been completely caught off-guard by the sheer noise, as the magic ensured that there was almost zero noise outside

 

“Go on and look around for a sutiable owl, Harry,” she said, pushing his shoulder with a magic-charged hand that brought him out of his stunned state.

 

“Right,” Tyragos said, stepping forward to do just such a thing when a snowy owl swooped down and made itself comfortable on his shoulder. Both Blues, joined by the other four of their impromptu party, looked at the owl with a raised eyebrow. An indignant and impatient hoot, as if to say 'hurry up and buy me', was their sole reply.

 

“I say, I didn't expect that to happen,” the salesperson said, barely making himself heard over the din. “That owl's been difficult, she has. Nearly scratched out the eyes from three earlier clients, she did.”

 

She hummed thoughtfully. There was something off about the owl, but she wasn't sure what. It was familiar, somehow. “We'll take it. Her,” she corrected when the snowy owl hooted forcefully. Another hoot, more placid this time, sounded from the owl's throat at her correction.

 

“Excellent,” the salesperson said with obvious relish. “Since you're buying the bird that cost me a few sales, I'll throw in the usual accessories, Owl Treats, a stand, and the like, for free. That'll be nine Galleons, ten Sickles.”

 

Coins exchanged hands, and they left the shop to exclamations of gratitude. “All you need now are your wand and your books,” she said, continuing at a lower volume while Flitwick and the Thomases were still inside. “Being a Blue, you don't really need a focus, but it'll help you blend in. I fully expect you to work on wielding the magic you learn at Hogwarts the same way you wield the magic at home.”

 

“Of course, _malana_ ,” he replied dutifully, just before the others appeared from the shop with a barn owl perched on Dean's shoulder.

 

“Time for a wand and books,” Flitwick said excitedly. “It will be best if we split up for this, as Ollivander's does not have a very large customer area. I would recommend that you and Mr. Potter go first to Ollivander's, while the Thomases purchase their books. I will accompany the Thomases to Flourish and Blotts, because having a guide in Ollivander's is less than useful. The wand chooses the wizard, Ollivander always says, not the opposite.”

 

Cyanigosa and the elder Thomases nodded in agreement. “Very well,” she said. “Come on then, Harry.”

 

The shop in question was a rickety-looking thing with a weather-aged sign that read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC._ The display window was equally unattractive, featuring only a single wand on a faded purple cushion behind a dusty window.

 

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they opened the door and stepped inside. The customer's waiting area was tiny, as Flitwick had said, bare save for a single chair upon which Cyanigosa seated herself, taking the owl from Tyragos without a word. The atmosphere was similar to the Violet Library, or the Archive of the Eye – respectively, the libraries of the Kirin Tor and the Blue Flight – in that the ambience somehow caused one to swallow questions that would otherwise have been asked because it would be impolite to disturb the silence.

 

“Good afternoon,” a soft voice said, uncaring of the sanctity of silence that had hung in the shop until then. Her whelp jumped a little, but she was distinctly unaffected by the sudden noise. She had lived for ten millennia, it would take more than a sudden voice to startle her. She steadfastly ignored that she had done the same thing as her whelp when Norgannon took her aside and introduced himself.

 

An old man that hadn't been there before stood behind the counter, his wide, pale eyes shining like a pair of moons on a full moon's night in the gloom of the shop.

 

“Hello,” her whelp said awkwardly.

 

The man narrowed his eyes for a moment, frowning his brows in thought before he cleared his face less than a second later. “Ah yes,” he said. “Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn't a question. “You have your mother's eyes. It seems like yesterday that she was here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Perfect for charms work.

 

“Your father, on the other hand,” he continued while approaching Tyragos with those unblinking eyes, “favoured mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power, and a very fine wand for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it... it is the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

 

“How does that work?” her whelp asked suddenly. “How does a wand choose a wizard?”

 

“Complex enchantments layered upon the wood as it is processed for the purpose of having a wand crafted,” the man said, a bit more lively and much less creepy now that Harry had shown interest in his profession. “The enchantments soak into the wood, granting it a modicum of sentience that allows it to identify a wizard with magic compatible with the wand's own. Since every wizard's magic is unique, every wand is unique, though there are certain trends that spring up with the generations. The Malfoys, for example, have been using yew wands for close to ten generations now.”

 

“So the wand can react, for want of a better word, with the magic of a wizard?” her whelp asked, and a small smile played upon her face. If this line of inquiry led to what she suspected, they would save a lot of time. She knew teaching him to get a picture of his surroundings with just his magic would be useful, though she didn't anticipate it to be so soon. It had been barely two weeks.

 

“A better word would be recognize, but yes, that would be the case, Mr. Potter.”

 

“So if I were to pulse my magic similar to how a bat echolocates, would a wand, or wands plural, react?” her whelp asked, and her small smile broadened.

 

The old man looked at him like he'd grown a second head. “I never considered or encountered such a phenomenon, but I do not see a reason why it would fail to work,” he said, opening a flap to the side of the counter, allowing her whelp access to the numerous rows of wands behind the counter.

 

“Do be careful with your pulses,” he said. “Some of these wands are centuries old.”

 

Her whelp nodded and, as softly as he could, pulsed his magic repeatedly as he walked through the aisles. After five minutes, he re-emerged with three boxes, none of them looking younger than a decade. “These three gave a reaction,” he said, handing the boxes to the old man.

 

The man blinked a few times, proving that he could, and opened the three boxes. “Very curious,” he said, picking up the first. “Yew, thirteen and a quarter inches, heartstring of a dragon. Stiff. A powerful wand, suited for offensive magic, transfiguration, and carving runes.”

 

She suppressed her gut reaction at hearing the core of that wand, reminding herself once again that the dragons of this world were little more than animals.

 

He put the wand down on the counter and picked up the second. “Eleven inches. Unusual combination of Holly and Phoenix feather. Supple. Another high-power wand, but focused on healing, protection, and defence rather than offence.”

 

The second joined the first, and the third wand was lifted from his box. “Fifteen inches, longest wand I've ever made. Oak and heartstring from a particularly vengeful Hungarian Horntail. Somewhat bendy. This is, by far, the most powerful wand I have in the store, and it is an all-purpose wand very capable at every branch of magic, though it is slightly better at offence that it is defence, and has a slight preference for Charms.”

 

He put the wand down on the counter, next to the other two. “You are only allowed one,” he continued. “The enchantments are such that, as long as one wand has an active bond to you, another cannot supplant it.”

 

Her whelp sank into thought, staring at the three wands with an intense gaze.

 

After three minutes, he picked up the oaken wand. The moment his hand made contact, the room lit up and transformed into the same black void where she'd met Lord Norgannon. While her whelp and the stranger were looking around in awe, Cyanigosa smiled victoriously. Evidently, Lord Norgannon approved.

 

The next moment, the void had disappeared and the three were back in the shop. They blinked a few times to re-orient themselves. “I dare say that was the most unique reaction I have seen in my long career,” he said. “I think we can expect great things from you, Harry Potter. Very great things indeed.”

 

“Thank you, I guess,” Tyragos said. “How much do I owe you?”

 

“Normally, that wand would be forty Galleons,” he said. “But your reaction to the wand is a new experience, and they are rare at my age. You can take the wand home for twenty Galleons, twenty-five if you purchase a wand holster.”

 

“Wand holster?”

 

“They became popular after Mad-Eye Moody demonstrated in public what happened to people who had their wands stored in their rear pockets,” the man replied with a shrug as he showed the pair of dragons-in-disguise a leather holster with straps that indicated it was supposed to be mounted on the arm. “Blast off a buttock in public and suddenly everyone wants a wand holster.”

 

“Imagine that,” Tyragos answered wryly in time with her snickering. “One wand holster, please.”

 

“The holster is affixed to the wrist,” Ollivander said. “Flicking the wrist like this will summon the wand to your hand, while a flick in the opposite direction will return it to storage. That'd be twenty-five Galleons.”

 

Tyragos handed the money over and, with his new wand firmly affixed to his right wrist, exited the shop without a further word. When Cyanigosa exited two seconds later, he was nowhere to be seen.

 

Cyanigosa rolled her eyes and set off at a slightly-faster-than-sedate pace for Flourish and Blotts.

 

– – – –

 

Four and a half hours later saw their purses fifty Galleons lighter, and their bags forty-eight books heavier, the vast majority of which would go straight into her whelp's personal library. He wasn't ready yet for the pocket dimension spell, and wouldn't be for a few years to come, but that was why they'd obtained the multi-compartment trunk.

 

It was a good start to a Blue's library, if a little late. The books they'd purchased from York and Scarborough were technically already part of her whelp's library, but a Blue's _true_ library was all about magic.

 

He'd selected books on magical theory, Ancient Runes – which was a laughable concept to her, as she was older than most of the civilizations mentioned in the books –, Arithmancy, magical history, and a book on Enchanting she'd missed the first time around. They had the last two copies of the book that wasn't going to be restocked because so very few people bought it. Most Enchanters didn't appear from self-study, instead being trained almost exclusively in a master-apprentice system due to the extreme difficulty of Enchanting. The art combined Ancient Runes, Charms, and Arithmancy to create even the most simple and basic of enchantments.

 

The sun hung low in the sky as the pair, Tyragos once again Henry rather than Harry, walked back into the Leaky Cauldron, now empty of most of its patrons. Professor Flitwick and the Thomases had said good-bye a few hours before, when the pair of dragons-in-disguise were still in the bookstore. Tyragos wanted to go home immediately to read his new books – an admirable wish –, but she reminded him that they had promised to patronize the Leaky Cauldron for dinner, and that no dragon, not even the Blacks, went back on their word.

 

There were few insults worse to a dragon than being called an oath-breaker.

 

The dinner, thankfully, was excellent. It was a simple dish of grilled chicken, potatoes, and cauliflower served with a simple but enjoyable wine - a soda for Tyagos, of course -, but one didn't go to the Leaky Cauldron and expect to be served a five-star meal. As an added bonus, Tom was an excellent cook, despite having a limited repertoire, and they eventually departed from the Cauldron very satisfied.

 

Going back to Sapphire Hill, known otherwise as Urra Moor, was as easy as walking into the alley opposite the Leaky Cauldron, grabbing Tyragos's arm, and Apparating out.

 

– – – –

 

A month later, on September the first, the pair travelled back to London. Everything inanimate was stored in the trunk, the trunk was in Cyanigosa's pocket dimension, and Hedwig, named for a particularly stubborn witch found in his _History of Magic_ text, could be found on his shoulder, happily hooting away as she rode shotgun on dragonback in the chilly September air. Cyanigosa had cloaked them in a standard invisibility spell that was still far beyond Tyragos' skills on the way there, planning to transform into her Human guise – Hedwig had taken their non-humanity really well, all told – only after she'd located King's Cross, since she didn't know where it was.

 

They made good time on the way there, completing the journey from Urra Moor to London in two hours, arriving at ten a.m. sharp. Locating King's Cross was as easy as identifying the largest railway hub, and Cyanigosa wondered why she hadn't noticed it before, on her first trip to Diagon Alley. She put the question out of her mind as she glided down and landed in a large secluded parking lot near King's Cross. Cyanigosa transformed back to her Human guise, ensured that Tyragosa was in his Harry Potter form, and dropped the invisibility.

 

“Come on,” she said as she collected Tyragos' trunk from her pocket dimension. “The ticket said the train left at platform Nine and Three-Quarter at eleven sharp, and time does not waiting for anyone.”

 

Twenty minutes later saw the pair plus owl pushing a trolley with a large trunk across the platforms of King's Cross. Locating the entrance to platform Nine and Three-Quarters was not the simplest thing Cyanigosa had ever done, but it ranked up there.

 

Aforementioned entrance registered on her magical senses like a nearby supernova on a cloudless new moon's sky. Magic washed over the station, and Cyanigosa honed in on the source of the magic like Arcane Missiles speeding towards their target.

 

It was just her luck that she encountered a mother with four sons and a daughter, all of them red-headed and all of them pushing trolleys with trunks the approximate same size as Tyragos', and additionally were in possession of an owl. She admitted that, to the best of her knowledge, owning an owl wasn't actually illegal, but it certainly was odd, and diurnal owls were even odder.

 

Her hypothesis wasn't supported by a lot of hard data, but chances were good that this woman was a witch that knew how to get onto the platform. Her senses were good, but with this level of magic flowing out, sensing triggers – like Diagon Alley's three bricks – was beyond her. She sped up a little, her son trailing in her wake, and approached the woman.

 

“Excuse me,” she said, drawing the attention of all six redheads. “But you don't happen to be going to Hogwarts, do you?”

 

“Hello dear,” the plump, matronly witch said. “And yes, we do. First time?”

 

“Yes,” she said as they started walking again, pleased that her supposition wasn't wrong. “Father preferred homeschooling, but I'm sending my son to Hogwarts come hell or high water.”

 

“A fine choice,” the mother said. “Ron's new too,” she said, indicating the youngest male redhead. “The trick to get onto the platform is to just pass through the barrier,” she continued. “It's important that you don't think you're not going to make it, because magic is weird that way.”

 

“Will is important, yes,” she agreed readily. “Without proper strength and focus of mind, magic is useless.”

 

“Exactly so. It's best to do it at a run if you're feeling a bit nervous,” she said. “Otherwise you get caught up in the vicious cycle of 'what if'.” 

 

“Thanks,” she said politely as the group of eight approached the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

 

“Go on then, you two go first,” she said. “We've done this trip numerous times already, and this way we'll be here to fish you out if you do get stuck.”

 

“Much appreciated,” she said. “Come on, _fanal,_ ” she added with a wave of her hand, ignoring the plump woman's raised eyebrow at the word.

 

Tyragos nodded and drew up beside her. “Yes, _malana_.”

 

She pushed him forward and he sprinted towards the barrier. The moment he touched it, he vanished from sight. _Translocation of some kind, or a thick illusion over the entrance?_

 

She intended to find out. Pushing the trolley ahead of her, she ran after her son, and opened her magical sense fully moments before impact. The magic of the barrier engulfed her, found her magic, and gripped it tightly. She kept running as the barrier pulled laterally at her magic, stretching and compressing it at the same time. Her eyes, long used to seeing magic, saw both the dark tunnel and the miasma carrying all the colours of the rainbow that the tunnel was made from, and her eyes widened at the intricacy of the enchantment.

 

This wasn't the work of some two-bit crackpot, this was a masterpiece that she doubted she'd be able to construct from scratch in less than half a century, and would even have given Lord Malygos difficulty.

 

She didn't know how it was accomplished, but platform Nine and Three-Quarters was its own contained stable pocket dimension that somehow had breathable air. She vowed to return afterwards to study how the train left this platform without being torn asunder by the spacetime distortions necessary.

 

“Welcome to platform Nine and Three-Quarters, _malana_ ,” her son said, sweeping his hand across the railway station. It appeared identical in most way to the platforms outside, with the obvious exception of electricity. A sign hung near the railway that read ' _Hogwarts Express – 11 o'clock'_.

 

Acrid grey smoke wafted over the platform and the heads of the crowd chatting on the platform. Cats of various sizes and colours ran around, and owls hooted over the din of conversation and the scraping of trunks. Cyanigosa swiftly recovered from her surprise at the barrier and the nature of the platform to grab Tyragos' shoulder just as he was walking off. Behind her, the gaggle of redheads emerged from the portal and walked past the pair.

 

“Alright, my little dragon,” she said, her eyes feeling suspiciously wet. “This is where we part for now. I expect weekly letters, though more than that is overkill unless something has happened that affects either of us and that I need to know about immediately.”

 

Tyragos nodded uncertainly. “Now, stay safe, don't get into scrapes you don't need to be in. Remember that your illusion still drops when you're asleep or unconscious. And, above all, have fun learning.”

 

She hesitated a little, then kissed him on the forehead. “ _Ana belore dela'na,_ _dalah'surfal fanal_ _'o._ _”_

 

“I will, _malana_ ," her whelp said. " _An_ _a_ _belore dela'na_ , _dalah'surfal malana_ _'o_ _,_ ” her whelp, her son, her _fanal_ , completed the ancient parting of ways.

 

She helped him load his trunk onto the train and forced the tears back as a few minutes later the train's whistle sounded, the doors closed, and the train gathered speed. A lone tear fell down her cheek as her waving son disappeared into the distance. She'd grown attached to the whelp over the decade she'd cared for him.

 

She Apparated out before more tears could fall. She had a public image to maintain. She ignored the fact that no one she knew – or whose opinion she cared about – could see her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thalassian translations (both from official sources and stuff I made up myself). Do note that Thalassian is, like Japanese, heavily context dependent and implies social cues that are missing in English. Translations with an asterisk are my original creations.
> 
>  
> 
> Minn'da: Mama
> 
> *Malana: Mother
> 
> *Fanal: Son
> 
> *Durien: My apologies/Sorry.
> 
> Belore dela'na: Eternal sun guides.
> 
> Anu: Us
> 
> Dalah'surfal: Beloved. Depending on context, can also mean 'my love'.
> 
>  
> 
> *The presence of 'I' and 'My' is often implied in Thalassian, and only explicitly said through either the suffix ' 'o ' appended to the noun that is possessed by the speaker, or through addition of the words 'I' or 'O' after the possession. For example, in the above parting of ways, 'dalah'surfal'o fanal' and 'dalah'surfal fanal'o' are both legitimate phrases, as are both 'dalah'surfal fanal I' and dalah'surfal I fanal' all of which translate to 'my beloved son', though the latter pair is only encounter in legalese. Of the first pair, the first sentence emphasizes 'beloved' while the latter emphasizes the fact that the addressee is the speaker's son. Leaving out the possessive suffix still allows for the translation to 'my beloved son' due to context without any potentially awkward social elements. 
> 
> The original version of this chapter regurgitated the canon year 1 shopping trip for a large portion, but because the trip happens two days after the first letter is received (a Saturday, owing to experiments that Cyanigosa had running), rather than a mad dash through the country trying to escape the letters, I figured that that would be idiotic. As such, I figured that they would go when some of the muggleborn were being shown around the alley. Ms. Granger found herself escorted by McGonagall, but they conveniently missed each other throughout the day.


	3. Chapter 3

Tyragos kicked his feet up on the table-thing near the window in his otherwise empty compartment of the Hogwarts Express, his Transfiguration text ready to be read. His trunk was tucked away in a corner, close enough to reach if he needed something, far enough that it didn't bother him, and Hedwig had been sent to Hogwarts already, because it was cruel for an owl to be stuck inside a train for hours. Creatures of flight should be able to stretch their wings. He had just read the first sentence when a red-haired girl opened the door and peered inside.

 

“Oh hello there,” she said. “Do you mind if my friend and me sit here?”

 

“Not at all,” he said, waving to the empty bench opposite him, stowing his book while was at it. It was unlikely he'd get to read in peace.

 

“Thanks,” the auburn-headed girl chirped, motioning for her friend to join them. “My name is Susan Bones, by the way,” she said, extending her hand, “and this is Hannah Abbott.”

 

“Hi,” Hannah said brightly, also extending her hand.

 

Tyragos clasped Susan's hand, taking care to not fully enclose his fingers around it, and bowed, bringing his lips close – but not actually touching – to the back of the girl's hand. The girl blushed, a very pleased smile on her face. He repeated the motions with her friend.

 

“It is a pleasure to meet ladies as lovely as yourself,” he said, ignoring the blushes that appeared on both their faces. “I am Ty-- Harry Potter,” he continued, barely managing to stop himself from saying his draconic name. _Malana_ had said that people expected Harry Potter the Human, so they would get Harry Potter the Human. It was hard, though. He identified primarily as 'Tyragos the Blue, son of Cyanigosa', not as 'Harry Potter, child of James and Lily née Evans'. It was a minor miracle he hadn't messed up during the Diagon Alley shopping trip, and he likely only did that because _malana_ almost constantly addressed him as Harry, rather than Tyragos.

 

“You're Harry Potter?” Hannah said in a higher-than-before pitch, her eyes raking his frame from head to toe. He suddenly felt self-conscious. His choice of clothing wasn't the finest he had available, but it was obviously well-cared for and of superior craftmanship.

 

“It's an honour,” she breathed. He blushed at her tone. “Do you really live in a castle in Avalon with a pet Nundu?” she asked, and without pausing to get an answer continued, “Are you really allied with the Fae, did you subd...”

 

“I'm really nothing special,” he said, blushing slightly, interrupting her before she went full steam ahead and became impossible to stop without resorting to methods he didn't want to. “I read those books they wrote about my supposed adventures, but the only things that even remotely match are that my adopted mother took me to Egypt when I was eight, and to a Romanian dragon reserve when I was nine. Both were for no more than two weeks, as they were holidays.”

 

“Right,” Hannah said with a renewed blush and a disappointed expression. “So no living in Avalon with the Fae and having a pet Nundu?”

 

Tyragos shook his head. “No. Though I did see a Nundu once, three years ago, but I can guarantee you it wasn't in any mood to become a pet, especially mine.”

 

Hannah pouted.

 

“I told you those books were lies, Han,” Susan said, before an official-sounding note crept into her voice. “Mr. Potter, were you aware as the books were being published that they were?” Susan asked. “And that they contained lies?”

 

“Call me Harry,” Tyragos said as he shook his head. “And no, I didn't.”

 

“Sounds like a case of... what did Auntie call it again?... 'misappropriation of name or likeness for monetary gain',” Susan said, adding a pompous note to her official-ish voice when she started quoting.

 

“Who is your aunt then, Ms. Bones?” he asked. “Obviously a legal or paralegal-type to use that kind of language, but...”

 

“Call me Susan,” Susan said with an impish grin. “My aunt is Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE. Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” she added when Tyragos just looked at her blankly.

 

“That sounds like a pretty big shadow to live in, Susan,” he said. Susan grimaced.

 

“Don't I know it. Up to now it's almost always been 'Madam Bones' niece' this and 'you're Amelia's relative, right?' that, and it's driving me up the wall,” she said with not a little bite to her voice. “For stuff like this, however,” she continued after she'd calmed down a little, “Aunt Amelia _would_ be your best bet if you wanted monetary compensation, or to take the books out of circulation.”

 

“I'll write her some time this week then, or write _malana_ to do it in my stead,” Tyragos mused.

 

“Malana?” Hannah asked. “What's that mean?”

 

“It liberally translates to 'mother' in my mother's native tongue,” he replied, inwardly cursing himself for slipping into Thalassian. Hannah nodded her comprehension, a light blush still dusting her cheeks.

 

“It's a pretty word,” Hannah said. “Flows off the tongue like water.”

 

Tyragos nodded.”The entire language is like that.”

 

“Can you give an example?” Hannah asked excitedly.

 

Tyragos considered it. _Malana_ had told him not to stand out, but expectations were already so high for him due to those novels that proficiency of a language no-one else spoke would be okay, wouldn't it?

 

“Sure,” he said, not seeing the harm in sharing more of the language. Additionally, maybe they would think it so beautiful that they would be enraptured by that and skip asking the uncomfortable question of 'where is it spoken?'. It was a distant hope, but these were Human pre-teens and _malana_ said that they were often easily distracted by shiny things, just as – admittedly – all children were, even draconic ones. Perhaps... Yes, that phrase should work. “ _Anu belore dela'na_ _.”_

 

“Almost as pretty as you,” Hannah said, her voice once again taking on that breathy quality. It rather unnerved him, truth be told. Was this what a fangirl was like? “What does it mean?”

 

“Essentially, it means 'The eternal sun guides us',” he said.

 

“I have to agree with Hannah on this, it does sound very beautiful,” Susan said. “If I wasn't planning to go into law, I would have liked to learn it.”

 

“What's stopping you?” Tyragos asked curiously, rather glad that his gambit, minor though it was, had worked.

 

“Law doesn't mix with other things that well,” Susan said. “The time investment required to be any good at it is rather ridiculous. It's a prestigious career, so the benefits are worth it, but it's still very time-consuming.”

 

“I can imagine,” Tyragos said with a thoughtful hum. “Personally, I'm not sure what to do yet when I graduate. Probably research or spell development of some kind.”

 

He turned to Hannah. “How about you, Ms. Abbott?”

 

“Call me Hannah,” Hannah said absently, biting her lip. “And I'm not sure yet too. Part of me wants to be a musician, part of me wants to start the first magical day-care, part of me wants to be a Healer.”

 

Tyragos raised an eyebrow. “All noble pursuits, Hannah,” he said. He wanted to add more, but at that moment the door slid open and revealed a cart, pushed by a plump witch wearing maroon robes with a stylized 'H' on the chest and sleeves. The cart itself was laden with sweets of various kinds, and Tyragos' stomach took this as its queue to rumble, earning a giggle from his two female companions.

 

“You want something from the trolley, dear?” the witch asked, gesturing towards the proverbial mountain of sweets on the large cart.

 

“A little of everything, please,” he said, grabbing his purse. “Mother did not take to sweets or allowed me, so I want to at least try it all and find out why.”

 

“Very well, dear,” the cart-witch said happily, grabbing a handful of small paper bags, all adorned with the same stylized 'H', from the interior of the cart and loading portions of everything into. “That'll be a Galleon, two Sickles, and a Knut.”

 

After exchanging the money for the bags, Tyragos walked back into the compartment with his chest and head obscured by the bags of sweets. He deposited all of them on the unused bench, and carefully inspected some of the boxes the bags contained.

 

“You've _really_ never had sweets, have you?” Susan asked, raising an eyebrow at his close inspection of several containers of sweets.

 

“No,” Tyragos replied without turning. “ _M_ _alana_ considered them to be nothing but detrimental and wouldn't allow me any, except for bites of chocolate whenever I was struck by a fever, which wasn't very often.”

 

“You poor thing,” Hannah said sadly, then opened some bags that she apparently recognized immediately. “This one is Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans. Keep in mind that when they say 'every flavour', they _mean_ every flavour. There's the more common flavours of raspberry, strawberry, vanilla, and apple, but also flavours like sprouts, spinach, cauliflower, pepper, liver, and tripe, all the way to the much more yucky flavours ofsnot and earwax.”

 

“So each bag is an adventure, is it?” Tyragos asked.

 

Hannah nodded, a small grin on her face that somehow made the light blush she'd been wearing the entire time looked better. “Yeah, for sure,” she said, then held up a rectangular-ish box from a different bag. “These are Chocolate Frogs. Like the name implies, they're frogs made from chocolate. However, unlike other sweets, these frogs are enchanted to make a break for it. Why they did this, I don't know, but swiftly biting off the head 'kills' them. Each Chocolate Frog box also contains a collectible trading card featuring important witches and wizards from history. Think of names like Merlin, Paracelsus, Flamel, Aggrippa, Dumbledore, and Morgana.”

 

Tyragos nodded, and Hannah steamed on. “These are the very popular Sugar Quills. They're multi-purpose in that they're fully functional quills when the writing tip is dipped in ink, but the rest of the quill is made from sugar so that nibbling on the quill when you're thinking hard on something is tasty, rather than feathery.”

 

“Useful,” Tyragos said, appraising one of the white quills. “I can see why they're popular.”

 

Hannah grinned. “They certainly are,” she agreed. “Next, there's one of my personal favourites, the Cauldron Cake, which is exactly what it sounds like. Their variety of possible flavours is second only to Bertie Botts', but unlike the beans, they don't mix flavours in one bag.”

 

“Someone's got a sweet tooth,” Tyragos said teasingly. Why else would she know so much about sweets?

 

Hannah blushed again. “Susan's got just as much a sweet tooth as I,” Hannah countered.

 

“Guilty as charged,” Susan said with a congenial nod before a small grin appeared on her face. “I, however, don't know enough about the sweets I eat to talk for ten minutes nearly non-stop about them.”

 

Hannah stuck out her tongue, earning a laugh from both other occupants. “So what house do you think you'll be in?” she said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

 

“I don't know,” Tyragos said, going with the flow. “ _Malana_ wouldn't tell me the characteristics of each House to keep my opinion of each of them unbiased. She's heavy on maintaining an open mind.”

 

“Very wise,” Susan said with a nod. “But your ignorance cannot stand.”

 

At these words, the pair of girls launched into a long explanation of the Houses of Hogwarts and a little bit of the known history of each, though Tyragos did notice that they made an effort to keep personal biases out of their story, a fact for which he was thankful.

 

Hufflepuff was the house of the hardworking and the loyal, and sounded a great place to be in, but he wasn't too sure about the whole 'friends with everyone' deal. He didn't make friends very easily.

 

Gryffindor was the house of the brave, chivalrous, and determined. This, too, sounded like a great place, but the stories the pair shared told him that 'thinking things through' was not in the vocabulary of the common Gryffindor, and he had been taught to _always_ think things through.

 

Ravenclaw was the house of the intelligence, learning, and wisdom. To a scholar, it was heaven incarnate, but it seemed too good to be true. The girls had literally nothing bad to say about Ravenclaw House, which set him on edge as _everything_ that was good had a bad side. _Balance_ was one of the première tenets on which he had been raised, and to encounter a lack of such meant that they were just more adept at hiding it, or it wasn't immediately obvious.

 

Slyhterin was the house of the cunning and ambitious, a very admirable combination. He frowned as Susan and Hannah said that it had been overrun by pureblood supremacists since the late eighteenth century, and that cunning was very few and far between according to their parental figures, and that familial power was the defining trait these days, rather than personal accomplishment.

 

It wasn't very hard to deduce that neither liked Slytherin very much.

 

“So which house do you think you will end up in?” he asked of the pair after they'd stopped talking.

 

“We're not entirely sure, no one is until they get Sorted, but we're hoping for Hufflepuff to keep both our families' tradition intact,” Hannah said. “The Abbotts and Bones' have been Hufflpuffs as far back as anyone can remember, even my muggleborn mother was a 'Puff,” Hannah finished with a grin.

 

“No non-Hufflepuffs whatsoever?”

 

“Nope,” Hannah said, popping the 'p'. “At least, not that's been recorded, much like every other family with such a tradition. Some even go to the extreme of disowning family members for not being in the 'right' house,” she added with a shrug-shudder hybrid. “Crazy, isn't it?”

 

“It is,” he agreed. “Things like that make me glad that I'm the last of my line and that there is zero familial pressure for me to go to a particular house.”

 

“Not that it would have mattered,” Susan said with a snort. “The Potters were notoriously multi-house. The last ten generations have seen six Slytherins, five Ravenclaws, seven Hufflpuffs, and ten Gryffindors, not counting marriages, and none of them have been disowned or otherwise publicly ostracised.”

 

Tyragos raised an eyebrow. “That's good to know,” he said. It pleased him that, at the very least, his family was recorded as being open-minded. He'd probably never know for certain, but this put something in the back of his mind at ease that he didn't know was under tension. “How do you know that so off the top of your head?”

 

“As Heiress to the Bones, one of the oldest families of magical Britain, I am expected to know not only the history of my own family, but also at least a passing familiarity with that of others so that I may bring the greatest glory to the Bones,” Susan said with only a minor grimace. “I've been studying familial history since I was four, like practically every Heir and Heiress in my situation.”

 

“Sounds like a lot of work,” he said. “Being an Heir.”

 

He steadfastly ignored the fact that, according to _Wizard's Nobility_ , he was an Heir as well, technically. He liked learning, but he had limits.

 

“It is, but fortunately there are child-safe charms to temporarily improve absorption of dry facts. Banned while at Hogwarts, of course, but in interfamilial politics no shortcut is prohibited beyond what the family is comfortable with.”

 

Once again, Tyragos' reply, which would have been something along the lines of 'where can I learn those charms' was interrupted by the door opening. Instead of the cart-witch, there was a pale, blond boy standing outside their compartment. He was flanked by two dumb-looking children that towered over the blond between them by at least a full head, and were nearly one and a half times as wide. Unlike some people he'd seen in Scarborough and York, the few times _malana_ took him out of the cave they called home, this wasn't flabby fat, but there was a hint of tension that said that, while there was a large amount of fat present on their bodies, it was supported by a good layer of muscle.

 

The blond, on the other hand, was rather scrawny and pale. His frame was slim, his clothes were of the type to scream 'my family is richer than yours', and what little Tyragos could see of the boy's physique beneath the clothing told him that this boy had never physically exercised.

 

“It's true, isn't it?” the blond demanded in a drawling voice, looking at Tyragos with a lot of interest. “They're all saying that Harry Potter is on the train and in this compartment. So it's you, isn't it?”

 

Tyragos narrowed his eyes. “So what if I am?”

 

“You'll soon find that some wizarding families are much better than others,” he said pompously. “Like mine. I'm Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and I can help you find the right sort.”

 

He extended his hand, and Tyragos regarded the appendage coolly, his mind whirling with simulations and consequences of every option he had open to him. It took him two long minutes to reach a conclusion, two minutes in which Malfoy's face started colouring slightly as he was reduced to a signpost more and more with each passing second.

 

“I am confident I am capable of finding the 'right sort' autonomously, thank you,” he eventually said with ice in his voice. Malfoy's hand remained ungrasped.

 

Malfoy's cheeks coloured pink as he balled his hand while it dropped back to his side. “I'd be careful if I were you, Potter,” Malfoy said slowly, trying for a hint of danger in his voice and failing miserably. _Malana_ could be more threatening on a good day, let alone her bad ones. “Unless you're a bit politer, you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. Associating with this riffraff,” his eyes slid over to Hannah, leaving absolutely no doubt who he meant, “will rub off on you.”

 

“I remain confident that I am capable of gathering my own group of friends and allies, _Draco_ ,” he said, folding his hands over his lap, palms down. “Additionally, I am currently quite comfortable with my chosen company.”

 

Malfoy's cheeks turned red, his eyes narrowed, and a slight tremor started in his shoulders. Tyragos gave a vicious internal smile at the success of his multy-layer insult. Outwardly, he appeared the definition of haughty serenity, just the way _malana_ had taught him.

 

“Watch it, Potter,” Draco muttered, his hand clenching and unclenching without apparent conscious thought. “You'll get yours.”

 

Malfoy stormed off without a further word, his two lackeys following him.

 

Tyragos placed his hands behind his head as he leaned back into his seat, his earlier victorious smile now once again pasted on his face. Susan and Hannah looked at him with a glint in their eyes he couldn't readily identify.

 

“I'm not sure that was entirely wise, Harry,” Susan said cautiously. “The Malfoys are powerful, even if the only reason they're out of Azkaban, the wizarding prison, is because they knew to pay the right people and claim they were bespelled.”

 

“I'll deal with it as the time comes,” Tyragos said calmly. “His general demeanour, not to mention that speech about some families being better than others, told me he was not someone I wanted to associate with, and I made it abundantly clear to him that this remained the case.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Why exactly was he under the impression he was better than others?”

 

“The Malfoys are part of the Pureblood Supremacist camp,” Susan explained with well-hidden distaste. If he hadn't had draconic senses he doubted he'd have picked it up. “They who believe that purebloods – those with multiple consecutive generations of wizards and witches on both sides – are better than anyone else by virtue of their blood. Hannah here is considered a 'half-blood', since her mother is a witch born to Muggle parents while her father is 'of pure blood'. I'm a pure-blood, while you, too, are a half-blood due to your mother, though he didn't seem to care about _your_ blood-status.” She folded her arms across her chest.

 

“The only reason he didn't outright attack you was because my Aunt is looking for any excuse whatsoever to bring the Malfoys to justice, as she knows he was a Death Eater in the war and got off.”

 

Tyragos nodded in understanding. “And my decision is reinforced.”

 

“ _We will arrive at Hog_ _smeade station_ _in approximately one hour._ _All students are reminded that school uniforms are required wear_ before _entering Hogwarts_ _' halls_ _._ _”_

 

All three looked at each other in surprise at the sudden announcement. None of them had noticed that the sky outside had been darkening steadily. “I'll wait in the hallway while you get changed,” Tyragos said, suiting action to word. Ten minutes later, he switched places with the girls and simply threw his black school robe over his other clothing.

 

They talked about things of little consequence in the remaining hour as the train continued down the tracks towards Hogsmeade station. Tyragos departed the train with his two new friendly allies – possibly friends? – close behind him.

 

“Firs' years o'er 'ere!” a large man with a shaggy mane of hair and an equally shaggy beard said. “Firs' years this way!”

 

The trio approached the man and Tyragos had to revise his opinion. He was not just large, he was _massive_ . He estimated that this man was equal t o slightly more than two-thirds of _malana'draco_ _n_ her left front leg, and _malana'draco_ _n_ was a Wyrm, not an itty bitty Drake like Tyragos would be in a few years. The leg in question was a good sixteen feet tall.

 

He seemed friendly, though. He had a broad, happy grin on his face that looked natural despite the craggyness of his face, his eyes were gleaming with mirth, and he carried himself with joviality.

 

“This ever'one?” he asked loudly in the direction of the platform after all the first years had crowded around him.

 

“Aye, Hagrid,” came the response from somewhere. “Off wit' ye. McGonagall is waitin'.”

 

“Excellent,” he said, then turned back to the children. “The name's Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. I'll be guidin' you to the castle proper. Follo' me.”

 

Hagrid led them down a twisting and winding stone path in the pitch-black darkness of the Scottish night. Tyragos could barely make out the trees lining the path, even with his better-than-Human eyes.

 

“Yeh'll get yer firs' sigh' o' Hogwarts in a min,” Hagrid said at the same moment that the group approached a corner.

 

“Oooh,” most of the group exclaimed when they spotted what laid on the other end of the corner. Despite himself, Tyragos was impressed. This was a _proper_ castle, the like _malana_ described in her stories. Its many parapets and towers gave a larger-than-life impression that was very imposing, and the illuminated windows – most of them stained with some seriously detailed artwork of dragons, merfolk, and other creatures – sent rays of light to the dark lake below, lighting up the black like that one time he'd seen skyglow up in the polar circle last year.

 

One such light illuminated a dozen or so boats lying in wait at the shoreline.

 

“No more 'n four to a boat,” Hagrid bellowed. “An' keep yer hands out of the water.”

 

“What happens if we don't?” someone asked.

 

“In the best case, nuthin',” Hagrid said with a shrug. “In the worst case, a nearby Grindylow could see your hand a tasty meal. This par' o' the lake isn't meant fer swimmin'.”

 

“What's a Grindylow?” another asked.

 

“Nasty buggers, that's what. Them's live mostly off algae and other fish, but are known to enjoy a bite o' human now an' then. They're crossbreeds of magical angler fish and octopi.”

 

“Ew,” a bushy-haired first-generation girl said with a shudder, swiftly stepping into a boat and hugging herself tightly. “That's just gross.”

 

“The wizard tha' did it wasn' all there,” Hagrid agreed. “Now come on, we ain' got all day.”

 

Tyragos, Susan, and Hannah clambered into a boat, where they were joined by a boy who hadn't started shedding baby fat yet, beating out a gangly red-head – Ron, if memory served – by a few seconds.

 

The boats shuddered once, and set off for the castle.

 

Tyragos noted with surprise that their boats appeared to glide over the lake, as the surface was as smooth as glass despite the presence of multiple boats that should have left waves in their wakes. The castle appeared to grow as they boats approached, casting the new students in an eerie light.

 

“Keep yer heads down,” Hagrid said, who did not bend downwards. “Yer heads are safe from the rock, but the ivy here can do a pretty number on yer heads.”

 

Most students saw fit to follow Hagrids advice – even Malfoy, he noted absently –, and Tyragos saw why when the boats sailed underneath the ivy. At first glance, the ivy itself was fairly normal for ivy that had existed in such a magic-rich environment for its entire life. When one looked deeper, however, things departed from the normal. This ivy had needles. Not thorns, but needles, each a sickly purple that screamed of poison, though thankfully the needles disappeared just above Tyragos' head even when he sat upright.

 

He still ducked though. His skin was rather fragile in all of his humanoid forms, and he wasn't very keen on subjecting himself to poison.

 

After the boats passed the ivy, they passed through a dark, underground tunnel that doubtlessly took them underneath the castle before they eventually docked at a small underground harbour, at which point they disembarked onto gravel. Tyragos spotted a toad – a leg-band clearly marking it as a pet – making a break for it and swiftly snatched it up.

 

“Found: one toad. Any takers?” he said loudly, holding the toad above his head.

 

“Trevor!” the fourth person from their boat said. “I thought I'd lost you again.”

 

“Everyone after me!” Hagrid bellowed, illuminating a pathway hewn into the rockface with a hand-held lantern. The pathway soon turned into a stone staircase that led to a pair of large oak doors that they crowded around. “Everyone 'ere?” Hagrid yelled over the crowd. “You there, yeh still got yeh toad?”

 

Receiving no reply to the negative, he nodded and knocked three times on the doors, the sound echoing in the silence.

 

As if someone was waiting on the other side, the door cracked open immediately, revealing a black-haired witch in very sensible emerald-green robes. Her lips were rather thin, her eyes sharp, and his sensitive ears picked up the light tapping of her foot. She _had_ been waiting on the other side.

 

“The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid said.

 

“Thank you Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

 

The witch pulled the door wide open, allowing the new first-years to see the large entrance hall. It was bigger than most four-person family homes he'd seen in their rare trips away from the caves, and was appropriately lit with flaming torches above head-height – their head-height, anyway – at regular intervals. A door interrupted the masonry at the far end of the room, while a smaller one did the same on their left. A large marble staircase led away into the heights of the castle on their right. The ceiling was high enough that the light of the torches was _just_ enough to allow Tyragos' eyes to see it, and it was a fairly standard piece for a castle built when _Hogwarts: A History_ said it was.

 

The witch, Professor McGonagall, led them through the smaller door into a small, empty chamber that was barely large enough to fit them all. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” McGonagall said. “Soon, you will enter through these doors into the Great Hall to be Sorted and join the start-of-term banquet with your house. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because your house will be like your family throughout your stay here. You will eat together, you will sleep together, you will learn and shed sweat together.

 

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and its fair share of outstanding wizards raised within their halls. While you attend Hogwarts, your triumphs will award you house points, while rule-breaking will ensure you lose house points. At the end of the year, the House Cup is awarded to the house with the most points.

 

“The Sorting Ceremony will begin in a few minutes. I suggest you tidy your appearance,” she said, casting a few pointed looks at the assembled children. “I will return when we are ready to begin.”

 

She turned and swept from the room. Harry turned to Hannah. “Do you know how we are sorted?”

 

“No,” Hannah said. “It's traditionally been kept a secret to increase the suspense. I have been told that its a test of personality, but nothing else.”

 

“So no magic used at all?” he asked at a slightly raised volume, steadfastly ignoring the whisper from the bushy-haired girl close by that began reciting spells at a furious pace the moment McGonagall left. It wasn't out of a sense of altruism, but more a desire to quell the students in order to reduce his headache. Her whispering had been picked up by a few people, who started whispering themselves, and before anyone really figured what happened they were talking normally.

 

The acoustics of this room were... decidedly sub-par, and the soundwaves swiftly started to resonate, amplifying the volume and prompting the students to talk even louder to beat the resonance, which increased the volume of the resonance, etcetera.

 

Tyragosa had used only a little bit of magic to make his voice penetrate people's ears without having to raise the volume unduly, and his question had the desired effect. Everyone fell silent.

 

“If there is, we'd be thoroughly out on our butts,” Susan said into the sudden silence, blushing slightly as all the attention fell on her. “I've never cast any magic, nor has Hannah, and I seriously doubt that the vast majority of muggleborn learned spells in the time between their letter and the train, since the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery is in effect the moment you accept your place at Hogwarts.”

 

A reply was, for the third time that day, cut off by outside events. This time, it wasn't doors opening but people screaming. “What the –,” someone said, pointing a shaky finger at the wall.

 

Tyragos raised an eyebrow at the sight, using years of meditative exercises to clamp down on a very similar reaction. Twenty _actual ghosts_ had emerged from the wall, and they seemed to be arguing. “Forgive and forget, I say,” a ghost that could be described only as 'fat, vertically challenged thirteenth-century monk' said. “We ought to give him a second chance –”

 

“My dear friar,” a ghost wearing a ruff and tights said with a shake of the head. “Have we not deigned to give Peeves more chances than he deserves? He's not even a real ghost, as you all know, and he ensures our reputation plummets by proxy – I say, what are you all doing here?”

 

“We're the new first-years,” Tyragos answered after a moment of silence.

 

“Ooh, it's that time of the year already isn't it?” the friar said. “About to be Sorted, aren't you?”

 

Tyragos nodded.

 

_Click._

 

Tyragos trained his eyes on the door, which McGonagall was in the process of opening.

 

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff,” the friar said jovially. “My old house, you know?”

 

“Move along,” McGonagall said sharply. “The Sorting is about to start.”

 

The ghosts floated away through the wall into the hall that McGonagall had just come from. When the last ghost had left, she turned to the students. “Form a line of pairs,” she said. “And follow me.”

 

Tyragos paired up with Susan, while Hannah stood next to that boy with the ever-escaping toad, and entered the hall behind the bushy-haired witch that was indirectly responsible for driving him to a near-splitting headache. He didn't hold it against her much, she was just as nervous as the others – even himself, though he hid it better –, and everyone had different coping mechanisms.

 

The line entered the Great Hall, and Tyragos felt his jaw drop. It weren't the sheer amount of people present – several hundred –, or the golden cutlery, silver plates, and crystal glasses at every seat, nor the decorations – rather standard fare, truth be told, banners with the coat of arms of each house over each house table and a banner with the Hogwarts crest behind the staff table –, nor the seemingly non-existent lighting, lacking a chandelier and torches on the walls as far as he could see, but rather the ceiling.

 

“It's bewitched to look like the sky outside,” the bushy-haired witch in front of him whispered as they were led to the front. “I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_.”

 

It was an extremely well-done enchantment, as even he could not see the ceiling beneath the enchantment. If he didn't know better – a ceiling-less castle would be a stain on the reputation of everyone involved in its construction – he would have doubted that a ceiling existed at all.

 

McGonagall placed a rickety four-legged stool in front of the staff table and placed an old, dilapidated hat on it. Tyragos raised an eyebrow when he noticed that everyone was staring at the hat plus stool. He wondered what was going on when a tear along the hat's rim opened up and the hat started _singing._

 

_A bloody singing hat._

 

The song itself was standard fare. Some words about itself and its function in Hogwarts, enumerating the core qualities of each of the Four Houses. He was sort-of worried about the words 'there's nothing in your head I can't see', though. There was a fifty-fifty chance that the Hat was allowed to tell the Headmaster everything it saw. The other option was that the Hat wasn't allowed to talk about it except to the student under heavy privacy wards or in the open with the permission of the head of the family. _Wizard's Nobility_ mentioned how jealously the old wizarding families guarded their knowledge, so either the familial heads would wait until after the Sorting, or they wouldn't send their children here without guarantee that familial secrets _remained_ secret.

 

McGonagall produced a large scroll of parchment, and unfurled it. “When I call your name, step forward, sit on the stool, and place the Sorting Hat on your head to be sorted.

 

“Abbott, Hannah!”

 

Hannah stumbled forward, her twin pigtails waving in the air behind her, and sat down on the stool. In a rather comical display, the hat fell right over her eyes and nose. She had to wait but a moment before the hat loudly proclaimed, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

 

The table on the far right cheered as Hannah, a victorious grin firmly in place, placed the hat back on the stool and ran off to meet her new House. Ten seconds later, Susan joined her in much the same manner.

 

Boot, Terry became the first of the new set of Ravenclaws, swiftly followed by Brocklehurst, Mandy.

 

The Sorting continued, and Tyragos tuned most of it out. He only noted that the boy who hadn't yet shed most of his baby fat was called Neville Longbottom – Gryffindor after four minutes of deliberations –, Malfoy went to Slytherin, and the bushy-haired witch was called Hermione Granger and Sorted into Gryffindor.

 

Eventually, McGonagall reached the 'p', swiftly sorting the Indian-looking Patil, Padma into Ravenclaw and Patil, Parvati into Gryffindor. Tyragos drew himself up. His name was due any moment, and he didn't think he'd be Sorted as 'Tyragos', given who the letter was addressed to.

 

“Perks, Sally-Anne,” McGonagall said, and the crowd quieted after she was Sorted into Hufflepuff. It didn't last. “Potter, Harry.”

 

Urgent whispers broke out, all of them quite audible to him. “ _The_ Harry Potter?”

 

“Do you think he'll sign my copy of _Harry Potter and the Well of Life?”_ another said excitedly. Tyragos snorted. _Not bloody likely._

 

He walked forwards, not a single falter in his step. Even if it hadn't been cultivated by his own machinations, he had an image to maintain, and until he could supplant it with an image formed from his own actions, going against the existing image – which wasn't all _that_ bad, to be honest – would be needlessly antagonistic.

 

He sat down and placed the hat on his head, trying his best to keep up the rudimentary mental barriers he had since he was four.

 

After a minute or two, Tyragos could hear the sound of a throat being cleared, but his ears didn't register anything, as if it was transmitted directly into his mind.

 

“ _A very curious mind you have there, Mr. Potter._ _No small amount of courage, q_ _uite a bit of talent, no small drive to learn, though information-avarice would be a better term, and if I weren't a thousand years old I'd have keeled over in shock at your past. As it is, I've seen weirder._

 

“ _You're quite correct in your assumption about me passing on knowledge, by the by,”_ the Hat continued. Tyragos breathed a sigh of relief. His secret would be safe. “ _The familial heads of yesteryear demanded that I couldn't share knowledge gleaned from the heads of their children with the Headmaster. Guess the paranoia of old magical families works out sometimes, eh?”_

 

“That's good to know,” Tyragos said softly to the hat's rim, barely moving his mouth. “It would have been trouble if that got out. Anything else you feel like sharing?”

 

“ _As a matter of fact, yes._ _I never thought I'd actually get to_ use _this phrase I learned from a very peculiar Human that was Sorted a few hundred years ago_ _who_ _graciously allowed the sharing of this language. Fortunately for you, this language_ _and his command thereof_ _was deemed a family secret, and so I couldn't divulge it without_ _his_ _Head's permission._ _Since you are a speaker of this language_ _and, more importantly,_ _I haven't divulged the name of this student or what_ _criteria I_ _Sorted him_ _to Gryffindor_ _on_ _,_ _I can use it as much as I want to._ _”_

 

“And the phrase is?”

 

“ _Bal'a dash,_ _Dracon'bandu_ _.”_

 

Whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it. His thought process ground to a halt as the words entered his mind. The meaning of the words – 'greetings, blue dragon' – registered next. Only after this had happened did he fully realize the implications of these words. The Hat knew Thalassian. Ergo, there had been someone from his mother's original world here before. The words slipped out before he could stop himself.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“ _Let's move on to the actual Sorting now, shall we?”_ the Hat said happily, ignoring Tyragos' whirling mind as he tried to process the bombshell the Hat had just dropped. _The Hat could speak Thalassian._ “ _You have a difficult mind, Mr. Potter. Or is it Tyragos?”_

 

Tyragos tried valiantly to refocus on the current situation – the _Hat_ could speak _Thalassian! –_ , his accompanying headshake making the Hat fall in front of his mouth as if he'd planned it. “Tyragos to _malana_ and to my own mind,” he answered, rather absently. “Harry Potter to the mages, _wizards,_ here.”

 

“ _I see,”_ the Hat said _. “You would do well in all four Houses, truth be told. You have the cunning for Slytherin, the chivalry_ _and courage_ _of Gryffindor,_ _a work ethic that would make any_ _Hufflepuff_ _want to imitate you_ _, and_ _a_ _drive to learn that would make even_ _Lady_ _Rowena shudder in envy.”_

 

“But I'm not really that ambitious, unless one counts getting through life as an ambition, nor do I feel really brave, or particularly amenable to making friends.”

 

“ _If everyone was required to exhibit all virtues of each house, absolutely no-one would get Sorted, ever,”_ the Hat said with what sounded like a snort. “ _If I were to exclude one virtue from each house, the houses of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw would be the most populous with a population of less than a percent of their current sizes, but Gryffindor and Slytherin would not nearly be as well off. Children of eleven don't possess the combination of chivalry_ and _bravery_ and _courage, nor cunning_ and _ambition, unless their childhoods have been... highly unusual. There is also the additional fact that simply possessing the values doesn't necessarily mean one is Sorted to that house. When multiple houses are an option for a student, as it is in most cases, I look for the virtues the person in question values. For example, you possess a drive to learn similar to the one possessed by Rowena back in the day, but you also have a sense of chivalry and honour that ties you between the Raven's Nest, the Badger's Den, and the Lion's Pride. However, while you value the virtues of the House of Lions, you are far from enamoured of their consequences. Recklessness in particular is something you detest.”_

 

Tyragos nodded. That sounded very much like him. One of his first memories was _malana_ admonishing him for not taking proper precautions – such as mattresses waiting on the floor –before he climbed the wall of the cave that was his room. Over the years that he'd grown up under _malana_ 's care, this had only been reinforced, Particularly when he tried his hand at Summon Water Elemental, the most docile of its kind.

 

To say he'd messed up and could have prevented it with proper preparations was understating things.

 

“Then the badgers or the ravens?”

 

“ _Yup,”_ the Hat replied. “ _The badgers are a friendly folk, honourable and very loyal. The ravens, on the other hand, are more reclusive and interested in learning. There is, however, a qualification that makes Ravenclaw both the best and wors_ _t_ _house for you. The Nest houses the intelligent, but rarely the smart or open-minded. From a personal perspective, Ravenclaw would be the worst fit_ _of all the houses,_ _despite being_ _perfect_ _at_ _a_ _superficial glance_ _. From the perspective of Hogwarts in its entirety, Ravenclaw would be best_ _because you'd encourage the other students to open their minds by_ _simply being you_ _. Hufflepuff is more neutral_ _to you_ _, neither_ _very_ _good nor_ _very_ _bad. You'd find friends in Hufflepuff, but you don't really need to be in Hufflepuff to make friends with Hufflepuffs, especially since you met Ms. Bones and Ms. Abbott on the train_ _to give you a way in without_ _appearing_ _creepy_ _.”_

 

“I suppose that's true,” Tyragos said thoughtfully. “But does Hufflepuff have its own library like I suspect Ravenclaw does?”

 

The Hat laughed. “ _No it doesn't,_ _and yes, Ravenclaw does_ _. I guess that makes the choice for you, doesn't it, Tyragos of the Blue_ _Dragonf_ _light?”_

 

“It does,” Tyragos said with a nod. “Ravenclaw, please.”

 

“ _Then so be it._ RAVENCLAW!”

 

– – – –

 

Thalassian:

 

 **Bal'a dash** : Greetings

 ***Bandu** : blue. 'Bandu' is canon (it's in the random words list when non-Blood Elves read words you type with Thalassian enabled in-game), but the meaning is all mine.

 

As you may or may not have inferred from the Sorting Hat's last sentence, in Thalassian adjectives follow the noun they qualify. _Dracon'bandu_ therefore translates to 'blue dragon', but the _literal_ translation is 'dragon blue'.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try to guess who the Human the Hat learned Thalassian from is. You have all the hints you'll get except for two: time between the two dimensions doesn't correlate one to one, and the Human in question is a canon character as of 2015/06/01 (y/m/d).
> 
> As mentioned before, Tyragos is, like all children, easily distracted by shiny things. Tyragos' definition of 'shiny' just happens to be 'information'.
> 
> Next chapter features Harry's first day in Ravenclaw, and a scene with Cyanigosa.


	4. Chapter 4

A heartbeat of shocked silence rang through the hall, conspicuous in the absence of any of the whispers that had accompanied the other Sortings, before the Ravenclaw table burst into cheers at the same time that the Gryffindor table, they who had been so assured that the Boy-Who-Lived would be a Lion before a quarter of a minute was up, let loose a massive groan.

The Slytherin table, with the exception of one furious blond who wished that Potter hadn't been Sorted at all, was rather neutral towards this particular Sorting. It would have been nice if they had gotten Potter, but very few considered it a great loss that the half-blood Boy-Who-Lived had been Sorted into Ravenclaw, all of them girls. At least he wasn't a Gryffindor.

The Hufflepuffs were, like the Gryffindors, also not very pleased, but for an entirely different reason. The House of Badgers wasn't a House that had a lot of opportunities for glory – Gryffindors made warriors, Slytherin bred politicians, and Ravenclaw engendered researchers, while Hufflepuff's virtues made them the perfect administrator, and rare was the occasion in which an administrator claimed some fame –, and nabbing Harry Potter would have finally brought some glory to the House. Despite this, they weren't very concerned about the loss of Harry Potter. The two girls he'd entered the Great Hall with were now Badgers, and as long as they ensured that they were often seen by his side, Hufflepuff would get some glory by proxy. They may be the house of friendly, hardworking, and loyal people, but that didn't mean they were completely inept at being sneaky.

By the time the cheering had died down enough for McGonagall to resume the Sorting – aided by several loud blasts from the Headmaster's wand –, several people realized that they may have been wrong about the Boy-Who-Lived, who had been shoo-in for the Lion's Pride if one went by publicly available information.

Almost all of the members of this group vowed to keep an eye on him. He may be useful after all.

– – – –

What remained of the Sorting Ceremony was fairly swift. Very few people had to be considered for more than twenty seconds before the Hat made its decision.

His stomach made it known that this was a good thing by grumbling loudly. Tyragos blushed when it caused most of his immediate environment to focus on him with looks of surprise and amusement. The dam holding back the laughter broke when his fellow first-year ravens – and many others throughout the Hall – joined him in the art of stomach-grumbling, one particularly loud one coming from the Gryffindor table.

A light, but nevertheless penetrating tinkle silenced them, and they turned to the Headmaster. He had stood up while the ravens' stomachs were making their displeasure at their current unfilled state known, and was beaming at every student gathered.

"It warms my heart to hear that the Welcoming Feast is anticipated so highly," he said lightly, spawning soft chuckles throughout the Hall and a 'damn straight' from somewhere. "To our new students, welcome to Hogwarts!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms. "To those who return for another year of learning at our fine school, welcome back. Before we being our banquet, I only have a few words to say, and here they are; Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!"

Tyragos raised an eyebrow at the words, even as he noticed delectable aromas suddenly wafting up from the table. "Is he all right up in the head?" he asked of an older student sitting next to him.

"Not entirely," the student admitted. "But, as any older-year Raven can tell you, genius and eccentricity are old friends. We 'Claws have our fair share of eccentricity too, and most of us are nowhere near as smart as Headmaster Dumbledore. Potatoes?"

Tyragos blinked once at the tables that were suddenly laden with food, the various smells combining into a rich odour that was a feast for his nose, if a little on the greasy side. _Neat. Obscuration and odour suppression magicwith a vocally triggered release, or a third party in possession of relocation spells?_

"If you're offering, yes please."

"No problem," the student replied, shovelling a generous helping of potatoes on Tyragos' plate. "I'm Roger Davis, by the way. Currently in my third year."

"Harry Potter," he replied as he loaded his plate with some nearby pork chops. "Pleased to meet you, Roger Davis."

"Call me Roger," Roger replied automatically. "So, Harry, you looking forward to classes?"

Tyragos nodded. "I am," he said. "Transfiguration and Charms more so than the others, Arithmancy and Runes trailing closely."

Roger grinned toothily, involuntarily displaying bits of food he still had clinging to his teeth. "You'll fit right in, then. Most the House loves those four, though you'll have to wait with Arithmancy and Runes until third year."

"Why?" he asked with a frown between bites of pork chop. Those two subjects hadn't appeared that difficult when _malana_ taught him. Maybe it wasn't the theory, but the practice?

"The school doesn't offer the classes as part of the core curriculum, only as electives, and electives don't get offered until third year," Roger said after quickly swallowing his own food. "There used to be opportunities to test in early, but they were removed by Headmaster Dippet, Headmaster Dumbledore's predecessor, and Headmaster Dumbledore never reinstated them."

Or it could be a decision made by administration. Perhaps Tyragos could request the Headmaster for testing into the subjects regardless? Something to think about tomorrow.

Roger frowned. "Speaking of tests, watch yourself around Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin. The hook-nosed, greasy-haired one at the far right end of the table. He's got a habit of throwing questions about things at the end of the book in his first class, and he seems unusually sour this night. Dunno why."

"Thanks," Tyragos said. "What can you tell me about the other Professors?"

"The stern witch is McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House," Roger replied without hesitation. "You've already met her, she led you into the Hall for the Sorting. Teaches Transfiguration and word of advice, do everything you can to not get on her bad side. It's really not a nice place to be."

Tyragos raised an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience?"

"Unfortunately," Roger confirmed with a grimace, then hastily indicated another Professor. "The twitchy one with the turban is Professor Quirrell. Rumour has it that he went to Albania to get some experience before he switched from teaching Muggle Studies to Defense Against the Dark Arts, ran into a pack of Vampires, and was never the same."

"Vampires?" Tyragos interjected. "Sucking blood, superhuman strength, can't stand daylight?"

"Yup," Roger confirmed. "Them's the ones. They tend to stay away from wizards because _lumos_ is effectively a hard counter for them, but we're delicacies to them so if they think they can catch one of us unawares..."

He mimed biting and sucking the blood out of a neck. It was realistic enough that Tyragos grimaced. "Anyway, his stories should be interesting, at least. The Professor with dirt stains on her robes is Professor Sprout. Head of Hufflepuff, teaches Herbology, one of the nicest witches you'll ever meet."

"The Nubian-looking one is Professor Sinistra," Roger continued, needlessly pointing a finger in the Professor's direction before he loaded his now-empty plate with roast beef. "Teaches Astronomy, generally nice and doesn't really have a bad side to get on, like Sprout. Once you do, however, you're in deep, _deep_ shit."

"I don't know the rest by name, excepting of course Professor Flitwick, our Head of House, and the Headmaster. Flitwick's the short bloke, the Headmaster should be self-evident."

"Professor Flitwick showed me around the Alley," Tyragos said in between bites of his food. Whoever made these pork chops knew what they were doing, because they were better than _malana's._ "Was shopping with mother and we stumbled upon a muggleborn he was guiding around, and we were invited to join them on the shopping trip. We accepted."

Roger nodded. "As good a first meeting as any, I suppose," Roger said, taking a sip from his goblet. "I would have appreciated a staff guided tour of Diagon Alley, too, I spent so much money on things I ended up not needing that I kind of wish now that I wasn't a magically-raised half-blood, like my younger sister Tracey, who was Sorted to Slytherin this year."

"What kind of stuff?" Tyragos asked curiously.

"A little of column A, a little of column B," Roger said evasively. "I'll show you sometime."

"Okay," Tyragos said, before Roger's attention was caught by another third-year student and Tyragos turned to his fellow first-years, joining a discussion on the upcoming lessons, particularly Transfiguration.

Over the course of the next hour, the main course came and went, to be replaced by the desserts. Tyragos tried the various types of icecream near him, but found that he was one of the few who didn't enjoy it at all, not that such was unexpected. Like _malana_ , he was a dragon of Spellfire, though he was also sort-of okay with Lightning, and he did not enjoy the cold.

Thirty minutes later, the desserts had vanished as well and the Great Hall fell silent as Headmaster Dumbledore rose to his feet. He loudly cleared his throat.

"Now that we are all fed and watered, I would like to make a few start-of-term announcements.

"All first-years should be aware that the Forbidden Forest is forbidden for good reasons. A few of our older students would do well to remember this as well."

His eyes twinkled as they flashed in the direction of the Gryffindor table.

"First, Mister Filch has asked me to remind you all that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes.

"Quidditch trials are, as usual, held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their House should inform Madam Hooch.

"Lastly, I regret to inform you all that the right-hand corridor on the third floor is out of bounds to those who do not wish to die a horribly gruesome death."

Tyragos narrowed his eyes at that announcement. That was practically an invitation to try their worst, and he could already hear the soft whispers of plans being made to find out. After all, as some of the whispers rightly said, the floor was not out-of-bounds if one _did_ wish to die a gruesome death. Or, at least, claimed such.

Given that Dumbledore was effectively the chairman of both the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards, the man had to be a master politician to hold his posts as long as the books said he had. There was no way he wouldn't have thought of that interpretation – if he, someone not involved in the wordplay of politics, had spotted it, someone with decades of experience in the art should have noticed it as a matter of course –, which could only mean that he was deliberately baiting the students to try their luck at the mentioned corridor.

"Is he mad?" Tyragos asked softly to Roger Davis.

"Absolutely," Roger said. "Smart as hell, but not entirely on his rocker."

"So I didn't imagine him daring every prankster in the castle to try their luck at the corridor?"

"Nope," Roger agreed. "I suspect that the Weasley Twins, the most notorious pranksters currently in Hogwarts, will make their first attempt tonight, before midnight. Got two galleons riding on it, even."

"Now," Dumbledore boomed over the emerging whispers, "before we retire, let us sing the school song!" He flicked his wand, as if it had acquired a case of boogers on the tip, and a golden ribbon flowed out. The lengthy golden ribbon eventually twisted and turned to form words that hovered in the air above the teacher's table, many of whom were grimacing.

Tyragos' stomach sunk in a depressing premonition. The looks on the teachers' faces could not possibly mean anything good.

"Everyone pick a tune," Dumbledore said. "And off we go!"

The next few minutes made 'find out if a silencing spell exists and if yes learn them' rise sharply to the top of his priorities. As the Headmaster had indicated, there was no one set rhythm for the school song, which meant that jazzy renditions were sung at the same time as more classical versions as well as a _funeral march_.

Tyragos was of the opinion that this assault on the ears was borderline illegal, and thankfully the worst of it was over within a minute. The funeral march offered by the Weasley Twins was, when on its own, a well-performed, if depressing, piece. The twins had good baritone singing voices.

Dumbledore conducted the last few lines with his wand, and when they had finished he was one of those clapping the loudest.

"Ah! Music," Dumbledore said, wiping a tear from an eye. "A magic beyond any we do here. And now, bed for you all. Tomorrow starts bright and early."

– – – –

The back-end alleys of the magical section of Berlin were not places where one went for one's enjoyment unless one was inclined towards being robbed, maimed, tortured, raped, and/or killed via a variety of ways, depending on wealth, age, and gender.

However, like all back-alleys, there was a system in place. It was just too chaotic for most people to recognize. But, at the end of the day, all the back-end alleys worked in the same way, no matter if the city in question was Dalaran, Stormwind, Silvermoon, Prague, Cairo, Darnassus, London, or Berlin.

Power, and the projection thereof, scared everyone out for a little robbery, rape, or murder – or combination thereof – away.

All she had to do was leak a little magic like she used to do when she was a mere whelp, and people fled before her. Power projection was considered a trait of the powerful in this world, and given their distinct lack of a magical core to reduce the magical 'cost' through efficiency, Cyanigosa was inclined to agree. Not that it mattered much if she didn't agree, the only thing that counted was people's perception.

Cyanigosa parted the shady crowd before her like one of the religious figures on this planet did with a sea as she made her way to one particular dinky little shop in the back alleys of Berlin that held a book she'd been wanting to get her hands on for the past ten years. Now that Tyragos was at Hogwarts, she finally had the free time to come over and collect it. It also helped to keep her mind off the absence of her whelp, not that she'd ever admit that out loud.

It took her all of five minutes to arrive at the shop she was interested in. She ignored the dilapidated exterior and opened the door with a low-power banishing charm. No telling what kind of potion may have been on the handle, like that shop in Cairo. She reigned in her magic. It was considered bad form to leak magic inside a shop, even a Dark one such as this.

Her eyes roamed over the shelves upon shelves of books, most of them borderline illegal. There weren't any fines or prison sentences for possession of these tomes, but if Law Enforcement caught you with them, you had the dubious honour of being in their spotlight.

"Herr Schulz," she greeted softly into the interior, void of life. "Kanaan informed me you might be able to help me."

The void was swiftly filled by a man with greying hair appearing from a door in the back. "A customer!" he cried jubilantly. "How may this humble shopkeep help if the esteemed Kanaan could not?"

"As much as Kanaan has knowledge," Cyanigosa said. "His knowledge is all about creation. I am interesting in destruction."

His eyes narrowed. "Destruction? You wish to _destroy_ knowledge?" he said, spitting the second utterance of the word as if she was a heretic. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't throw you out of the shop right now."

"Because you have leapt to conclusions," she said calmly. "I have recently come across a Dark object that I wish to personally dispose of, but I am a little leery of summoning Fiendfyre, as the object in question is dear to me. Basilisk venom, the only real alternative, is out for the same reason."

She didn't mention that she suspected that her Spellfire could, maybe, do the job as well, but since it was her son's scar she was talking of, she was rather leery of testing. It had taken six years of searching through Knockturn Alley to find anything on the creation of phylacteries, which were called Horcruxes in this world, and the fact that they could be destroyed by Fiendfyre or the venom of a Basilisk. Egypt's Kanaan, one of the most renowned black market knowledge brokers in the magical world, did not offer her the answers she required; how to destroy Horcruxes without destroying the vessel.

Herr Schulz adopted a thinking expression for a minute, before his face crunched in distaste. "You found one of _those_ , did you?" he asked, his distaste for the subject clear. "Very well. I will show you the back room. After a Vow of Silence, of course," he added, handing her a piece of parchment with writing.

"Of course," she replied easily as she accepted the parchment and inspected the wording of the oath written upon it. Vows of Silence for entry into the back rooms of shops like these were common practice, not to mention that she wasn't going to push her luck. She'd already lucked out by Herr Schulz having a distaste for her particular object of enquiry, but not enough that he didn't keep books on the subject. "On my magic so I, she who makes herself known as Sapphire, do swear to keep the content of, and my dealings therein, Herr Schulz's back room secret unless or until released from this vow by Herr Schulz or his legal successor as proprietor of _Kenntnisse der Magie_. This I vow, this I swear."

Golden light flared around Cyanigosa as her Vow registered properly. Herr Schulz nodded at her oration of the given oath and motioned for her to follow, which she promptly did.

Contrary to expectations, the back room was not a gloomy place of dread and despair, but a well-lit room where the books rested on lecture stands, each book having its own stand. She could only read a few of the titles – she was not fluent enough in scripts like Sumerian and Egyptian to do more than recognize them –, but the few she could had such comforting titles like ' _The Soul and You; A Guide to Phantamagia'_ , ' _Magick Moste Evil', 'Necromancy Unveiled',_ and ' _Cruormagia: Mastering One's Blood'._ Possession of any one held a fifty to life term in Azkaban. Two of any of these books was grounds for summary execution via Dementor's Kiss.

At last, the pair stopped in front of a stand that stood by its lonesome against the far wall, upon which stood a book that could charitably be described as 'aged'. Cyanigosa almost gagged at the miasma of evil that hung around the book. If it hadn't been exactly what she was looking for, she'd have torched it without a second thought. As it was, the book with the goldleaf-embossed cover that was crumbling in various places where the ancient stasis spells had started to fail was an unavoidable purchase.

"Here it is," Herr Schulz said unnecessarily as he delicately retrieved a bag and dropped the book inside, then cast a charm that blocked the stench from spreading beyond the bag. " _Cheating Death_ , by Herpo the Foul. Guaranteed summary execution if caught with this in one's possession."

So all it would have to do was not leave her pocket dimension unless she was in the sanctity of her cave. Not that big a deal. "Many thanks, Herr schulz," she said politely. "If it is not too much of an imposition, could I obtain _The Soul and You_ as well as _Cruormagia_ in addition to this?"

"If you have the gold," Herr Schulz said with a shrug. "It's no small problem off my back."

"How much, exactly?"

"Two hundred each. Buy both, get _Cheating Death_ at half-price."

Cyanigosa whistled. That was more than quadruple her whelp's wand for one book. "Three hundred for the three."

"Five hundred for the lot, or you can turn around now. I don't dislike those abominations enough to miss out on five hundred."

"Four hundred the lot, then," she offered, producing a bag of four hundred Galleons.

Herr Schulz looked at her with narrowed eyes for a long moment, then nodded. "Four hundred the lot."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Herr Schulz," she said as he gathered the two requested books for her.

"The pleasure's mine," Herr Schulz said with a dismissive wave. "You'll not believe how many Dark Wizards are unreasonably harsh against us humble shopkeepers, they who get them their less than legal items."

Dalaran's Underbelly, the site where most of the dealings Dalaran had that really ought not to see the light of day took place, briefly flashed through her mind.

"I do believe I can," she said, handing him the bag of gold.

Herr Schulz scoffed lightly as he accepted the coin. She was sure that she wasn't meant to pick it up, as soft as it was. "Anyway, another fifty Galleons gets you a bag that allows you to take them across international checkpoints without setting off alarms."

She smiled in response and raised her hand to the side, and _pulled_ at the air reminiscent of opening a door. An invisible, transdimensional door. A small circle opened in the air, barely half a metres across. A small shelf could be seen through the circle, and she gingerly placed the books on it, before closing the circle by making a zipping motion.

She turned back to the shopkeep, who was looking at her with shock and awe written on his face. "I thank you for your kind offer, but I believe to be adequately outfitted in that regard."

Her words snapped him out of the shock, as he blinked and shook his head in rapid succession a few times. "Was that a pocket dimension?"

She nodded, but didn't respond otherwise. "I thank you for the books," she said.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Sapphire," Herr Schulz said with a small smile. "I do hope to make your patronage again."

"You may, depending on what the future holds," she said simply, and turned to leave. "Goodbye."

"Auf Wiedersehen!"

– – – –

"Welcome to Ravenclaw House," the fifth-year prefect they followed up the stairs said. "I'm Prefect Robert Hilliard, and this is my female associate Penelope Clearwater."

"Hi!" Penelope said cheerily. "And allow me to also welcome you to Ravenclaw, the house where the Eagle soars in the skies."

"In keeping with the general Ravenclaw theme of air," Robert continued, "the Raven's Nest, as we like to call our house common room, is located at the top of Ravenclaw Tower, the second-highest tower in the castle after the Astronomy Tower."

"Access to the common room is granted not by providing a password, like the other houses, but by answering a riddle set by the enchanter doorknocker in the shape of an eagle," Penelope said. "This makes Ravenclaw both the easiest and hardest house to break into depending on who is doing the breaking in. Can you really blame them from wanting access, though? We have the _best_ view in the castle from our circular common room."

"That's right," Robert took over again. "We have a view of the Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest, the Quidditch pitch, and the gardens. Furthermore, Ravenclaw not only provides visual stimulation, but also intellectual. Without wishing to boast, Ravenclaw generally attracts the most intelligent members of the student body."

"Despite this, the door's riddles are often of such a degree of difficulty that it's not entirely unusual to see two score Ravens outside the door, trying to figure out the Riddle of the Day. This is traditionally a great way to meet new Ravens, but it makes it a bit of a chore to go in and out of the common room swiftly in case you forgot something. I recommend that you triple-check whether you have everything you need for the day before you leave the common room."

"Makes a mad dash to your dorm to grab Quidditch gear before practice a chore, let me tell you," Robert said, drawing chuckles from some of the tired first-years. "We're working on installing a mirror system so that we can communicate from outside to inside to open the door, but we're having a little trouble making it Ravenclaw-exclusive."

Tyragos tilted his head, deep in thought. _Challenge accepted._

"If you have an idea, posit it," Penelope said calmly. "Your minds are yet untouched by the limitations of magic, and ideas we may overlook because of an interpretation of magical rules may occur to you."

Tyragos raised his hand. "Mr. Potter?"

"Is there magic in Hogwarts that recognizes results from Sorting?"

"Yes, there is," Penelope confirmed with a tilt of her own head. "There's a record book in the Headmaster's office that magically catalogues who ends up in which house."

"Can you then not link this book with an identifier spell on the mirror?"

"In theory, yes," Robert said. "In fact, that's the main area of research. However, the Headmaster – rightfully – refuses access to the book, even when under supervision."

"Huh," Tyragos said. "Pity."

Robert nodded. "It is. To get back on track, there's only a few things we have left to say about Ravenclaw. The first is the fact that Ravenclaw tends to be more individualistic. Study groups are not uncommon, but the primary method of study is on your own. Research, on the other hand, is far more likely to attract groups. Even if your inclination is ovomancy, which is a form of divination using eggs, you're likely to find someone to help you."

"The second is inter-house relations," Penelope continued. "Slytherin isn't as bad as many make them out to be, but you'd do well to remain guarded when in proximity to a Slytherin, as more than a handful _are_. Gryffindors are OK, though they tend to be show-offs. They also tend to be less accepting of the less-than-normal behavioural tics common to Ravens. In fact, there have been many recorded instances of Gryffindors making jokes about Ravens that have attained an interest in levitation, or the possible magical use of troll snot."

Several of the first-years snorted.

"Hufflepuff, on the other hand," Robert said. "Is just about the nicest House you can find out there. Friendly to a man, or woman, and hard workers. The only negative side we've noticed to Hufflepuff is that they trend to isolationism and a hive mind from time to time."

"The third, and last," Penelope said as they arrived at the doorknocker, "is the Grey Lady. The ghost of Ravenclaw House. The rest of the school thinks she's mute, but she's always ready for a chat with Ravens."

Penelope grabbed the eagle-shaped doorknocker and banged it thrice on the door.

The eyes of the eagle lit up with an eerie blue light. "What came first, the Phoenix or the flame?" it asked, a slight echo to the voice.

Penelope turned to the first-years. "Are there any among you who have not yet tired enough to dare make an attempt at this conundrum?"

It was kind of off-putting to hear her talk so differently from how she had just been talking, but Tyragos surmised that it could have been rehearsed until that question. In any case, the riddle was easy, and simply the magical version of the chicken and egg conundrum.

"I would say that a circle has no beginning," Tyragos replied confidently.

"Well-reasoned." The door sank into the floor, giving the first-years their first view of the circular common room, dominated by the colours blue and bronze.

"Check out the brains on Harry!" Robert said brightly, before he furrowed his brows in an obviously faux thinking expression. "Or at least his resistance to sleep."

The room was rather cozy. A thick carpet covered the entire floor, and one half of the room was littered with comfortable-looking armchairs, while the other half appeared to be a massive study area. Three doors, excluding the one they had just appeared through, could be seen. The entrance included, there was one door in each cardinal direction.

"West is boys, east is girls," Robert said. "South is the Ravenclaw-only library, which you'll hear more about tomorrow. Curfew for first-years is seven p.m., bed at nine, lights out at nine-thirty. Wake-up call is at seven during the week, non-existent in the weekends."

"A meeting with our Head of House, Professor Flitwick, is scheduled for the morrow, at eight sharp, before you all break your night's fasts," Penelope said. "Attendance is not voluntary. You will be woken at seven-fifteen by myself or by Mr. Hilliard, and we expect you to be done with your morning ablutions at least fifteen minutes prior."

She let out a long, loud yawn, doing her absolute best to suppress it. "I bid you all a good night," she said and vanished through the door leading to bed. Robert and the first-years mimicked her shortly after in near-complete silence, all of them too tired to speak.

The first-year dormitory was at the very top of the Tower, and the only thing Tyragos noticed of the room right now was that one of the beds had his trunk next to it. None of the five boys was interested in talking due to exhaustion, and sleep claimed them swiftly once they had changed into pyjamas and laid down.

Tyragos just managed to don his Malygos-inspired nightcap, specifically enchanted so that it would hide the elven ears that would appear during the night as his illusion dropped, and draw his curtains before Ysera called him to her realm.

– – – -

One flight later, sped up by magic to take four hours instead of the eight it would otherwise have consumed, an invisible Cyanigosa touched down at Sapphire Hill, once known as Urra Moor. She walked into the grotto's entrance and made a beeline for the library. Once safely ensconced inside, with several anti-detection wards that would only leave herself, Tyragos, and Hedwig through, she retrieved the three exceedingly rare and pricey tomes from her pocket dimension. Almost immediately, she had to resist the urge to expel what little remained of her dinner. The book by Herpo the Foul was truly the foulest tome she had ever beheld. Neither the phantamagia tome nor the cruormagia tome were anywhere near as foul.

"Truly, something that would have come straight out of the Scholomance," she commented, thinking back on one of the few times she had actively aided mortals in destroying something. When it came to the Scourge, there were very, _very_ few boundaries she was not willing to cross. She smiled at the very satisfying memory of crushing Gandling's head in her claws. It was the last act she performed for the mortals before Lord Malygos called her back to Coldarra to prepare for the war against the Kirin Tor.

"Now, let's see what secrets you hold."

With that, she sat herself down on the lone chair – a very comfortable chintz armchair – and started reading. Fortunately, someone had provided a translation sometime over the centuries.

Old English was much more intelligible than Ancient Greek, if only because her prowess at the latter language was still at the point where she had to actively remind herself every now and then what letter was what in current script.

The first paragraph chilled her.

_Sorcerers of ancient Sumer spoke of containers of the soul, though they used these phylacteries to house an entire soul, though they stumbled upon several problems they were unable to solve. The body eventually rotted away, any notion of what made Man, Man, faded away, until nothing was left but a desiccated husk seeking power._

She narrowed her eyes at the offending paragraph at the same time that a smile played on her lips. It was both promising and worrying that first paragraph dealt with Ancient Sumerians _turning themselves into Liches._

The worry was obvious. If Liching was possible, were any other magics here connected to the Twisting Nether? She and _fanal_ were connected to the Nether, of course. How could they not, being Blues?

The question was, was magic in this world connected to the Nether. If it wasn't, there was little cause for alarm. If it was...

She'd have to go establish herself and politic. She'd have to save someone's life, get them to listen, or simply go to a trustworthy person in authority with her case.

In both cases, she was more than likely to require revealing herself as extraterrestrial, if not outright as a Blue. Given the nation's stance on non-humans, that was going to be problematic, to say the least. Saving a planet from invasion by the Burning Legion was worth it, however.

As she kept reading, and feeling further and further mentally violated as Herpo casually talked about abducting Vestal virgins and raping them to death in a ritual circle, using an early variant of the infamous _Imperius_ to force a husband to join in the rape of his wife until she died, and many, many more horrible things that she felt would require a mental scrub later, after she'd found out all that she needed to know.

After a number of hours, she felt a bird sit on her shoulder. She started slightly, before realization came. She hadn't felt the tingle of the wards – and it was a very persistent tingle that she would have noticed – that signified an unsanctioned entry, nor had she felt the feedback from failing wards. Logically, only a sanctioned entry could do so. As Tyragos was not yet capable of flight, only two birds were allowed entry. Official Hogwarts mail, and Hedwig. The chance of the former was present, but vanishingly small when compared to the chance her whelp was responsible.

She smiled and held out a hand for the owl to set herself on, which she promptly did. " _Bal'a dash, Hedwig,_ " she said. "Mail from the whelp?"

Hedwig hooted once, and bobbed her head. She held out a paw, to which was tied the letter she'd been carrying. She hooted once more, but this time there was a note of graveness to it that saw Cyanigosa suppress the simple joy at finally having someone write to her, even if it was her own son.

She removed the letter and opened it with a basic charm designed for just that.

_Bal'a dash, malana'o,_

_Hogwarts is an absolutely amazing castle, full of moving staircases, walls that pretend to be doors, doors that pretend to be walls, moving portraits, and the works, just like in your stories! I became known to Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott on the journey, and we've stricken up a tentative friendship, though what stories I hear of Hufflepuff – the house they were both Sorted to – tells me that the friendship is a lot less tentative from their perspective. I'm not entirely sure that's going to be a good thing._

_As to my own Sorting, I ended up in Ravenclaw. The fact that it's the only House with an other inaccessible library clinched the deal._

Cyanigosa smiled. She had expected no less, but it always felt good to have predictions confirmed.

_I made tentative friends with two of my fellow first-year Ravens, Terry Boot and Padma Patil, and met up with Dean, Susan, and Hannah during lunch._

_We've only had three classes so far, Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology, and for the most part they were as expected. Unfortunately, Runes and Arithmancy aren't taught until third year, due to being electives. I've requested a meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore to discuss this, but the last time a request like this was granted was in the 15th century to a wizard bearing names like Aureolus and Bombastus, so if a no-name like him can get it, I'm hopeful._

She snorted at his no doubt unintentional calling of the highly celebrated Healer Paracelsus as 'no-name'. At least, to the best of her knowledge no other man had been unfortunate enough to have both Aureolus and Bombastus in their name.

_This is, however, where the good bits end and the bombshells start._

_Or rather, bombshell._

_Professor McGonagall was demonstrating the power and danger of transfiguration by transforming her desk into a pig and back, then doing it_ slightly _wrong. Instead of a pig, she got a pig-like creature twice the usual size with a mean pair of tusks, purple-red skin, and several spikes jutting out its back._

Cyanigosa swore, earning her a reproachful hoot from Hedwig, who had taken a position on the armrest of her chair. She shut the bird up with a glare. There were _extremely_ few animals that listened to that description, and _all_ of them were from demonic corruption. Her son's next words confirmed what she'd begun to fear.

_She got a Felboar._

_She transformed it back to a desk before I could fling Spellfire, but I'm sure she noticed something, what with being a Professor and all._

_Ana belore dela'na, malana'o,_

_Fanal'a._

Cyanigosa let the letter fall from her hands as she sunk into the armchair, absently beginning to stroke Hedwig's head. The magic used here had an independent connection to the Twisting Nether, just like the magic back home. That meant that the Burning Legion was aware of this world, even if they didn't know exactly where it was. Which meant that she had to somehow enter this world's politics. On the _global_ level, eventually.

It didn't take very long before she started cycling through every foul word she knew, in every language she knew.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FFNet user Fenerath pointed out that Penelope was, contrary to what I thought when I wrote the chapter, a fifth year rather than a fourth year during Harry's first year. The OC Ravenclaw Prefect Meghan Clearwater dies a silent death, never to rise again. Unless Penelope needs a sister, of course :p
> 
> – – – –
> 
> Thalassian:
> 
> No new vocabulary.
> 
> Thalassian 101
> 
> There are six suffixes for any word in Thalassian. O, a, e, u, thi, and lun.
> 
> They are, essentially, how Thalassian conveys possession.
> 
> 'O indicates possession by the speaker.
> 
> 'A indicates possession by the addressee, usually of the speaker. 'Your son' becomes 'fanal'a', though in many cases simply 'fanal' suffices.
> 
> 'E indicates possession by a group, which can be indicated by further suffixes or context.
> 
> 'U indicates multiples. 'Your sons' becomes 'fanal'u' or 'fanal'ua' or 'fanal'u'a' depending on context, preference, and regional biases.
> 
> 'Thi indicates past possession. An ex-beloved would be 'dalah'surfal'thi'. The dearly departed are often addressed as 'dalah'surfal'thi'o' or 'dalah'surfal'thio'. In this case, the two are equivalent in meaning, but not enunciation. In the given word 'thio' is pronounced similar to the English 'theo', while 'thi'o' is closer to 'the o'.
> 
> 'Lun is future possession. The sentence 'she will be my beloved' can, in proper context, simply be translated as 'dalah'surfal'lun', which literally translates to 'future beloved'.
> 
> \--
> 
> This is the last of the pre-written material. Next chapter will come next month.


End file.
